


Once Upon a Coping Mechanism

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, archive warning: 7th season headcanons, archive warning: a daughter named jane, archive warning: a dog named sally, archive warning: ambient morning sex, archive warning: and the only cure, archive warning: but with surprise babies, archive warning: captain charming saved my life, archive warning: cc adopts, archive warning: cc first kisses, archive warning: cc holiday, archive warning: cc road trip, archive warning: cs babies, archive warning: cs domestics, archive warning: david nolan secretly likes it, archive warning: debilitating emotional vulnerability, archive warning: emma swan deserves the world, archive warning: emma swan has a filthy mouth, archive warning: finale spec., archive warning: handsome men eating fruit, archive warning: is more emma swan, archive warning: josh dallas' acting, archive warning: josh dallas' beard, archive warning: killian jones is a good listener, archive warning: killian jones is a snob, archive warning: killian jones was def grunge, archive warning: kisses and coffee, archive warning: kj has a fever, archive warning: lots of extra sensory awareness, archive warning: man out of time syndrome, archive warning: men who blush, archive warning: note the rating change, archive warning: omg they were roommates, archive warning: partial-deafness killian, archive warning: peppermint mochas, archive warning: pre-pancakes smut, archive warning: rom-com tropes, archive warning: sneaky bisexuals, archive warning: solar eclipse 2k17, archive warning: true love fighting, archive warning: true love's kiss y'all, archive warning: wedded fucking bliss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: A series of various drabbles and one-shots I've posted on Tumblr. As of now, most of them could be defined as a series of post-episode coping strategies (or whatever).





	1. 03.13.2017

**Author's Note:**

> All of these can be found on my writing blog, [@hencethebravery](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m trying to come to terms with the new episode. It was a lot for me, clearly. I never in a million years would have thought that I’d write a piece from David’s perspective, but alas._

 

How do you fall into the arms of your father’s murderer? Is it a stumble? Perhaps you had once been secure in the knowledge that you tread the path you had thought was your life, and then, quite unexpectedly, a root appears; a dip in the earth, and down, down, down you go—and he’s waiting, not quite expectedly but not quite surprised either. He catches you.

Is it a trick? A deception, perhaps? You have allowed this feeling, and you don’t quite know what it is, only that it’s this thick, viscous substance you’ve never felt before and it’s swirling around in your veins, mucking up your insides. But you know that it can be trusted, because it’s real, you can feel it—taste it, with every clench of your fists, tightening of your jaw, the feeling is there. The grief and the anger, they tell you to fall into his arms and then snap them in two. Like they were nothing. Like kindling to be thrown onto the fire.

Perhaps it is neither of these things. Perhaps it is both. Maybe it’s relief, maybe you are tired; you are lost, and this murderer even more so. Because he is, isn’t he? A murderer. Your friend, your son, your brother—all of these different threads you wish could be snipped so easily away. The vibrant color of his life no longer so inexplicably intertwined with your own and _you don’t know how_ to cast him out. And his shoulder has become your crutch, his hand is soft and familiar, like a brother you’ve never had, a son who’s not yet grown, a wife who cannot wake, and you can barely remember the fall.

In your memory the grief tastes like salt. Your vision is blurry, the colors of the room fade away and your knees are biting into cold, hard cement. When you learn the truth you will think of this moment, and you will have to wonder as to how you have fallen so, so far. You fell into the arms of a man centuries older than you; a man who had also fallen, quite a bit farther, so far, in fact, that he could not pick himself up. His father was a ring on his finger. One of many rings, in point of fact. And it makes sense now, that look in his eye that never seemed to fade no matter how often he cast that blinding smile in his daughter’s direction.

He doesn’t ask for your forgiveness, he knows that you may not be able to give it. No one demands it of you, it is a matter of time and grief and sometimes you wish for a less complicated life. A life where a man could die when he’s supposed to, not three hundred or so years after the fact—too many years to live, to love, to be cruel, to kill. It all becomes so meaningless, doesn’t it? What does it matter, this poor, sad man, strung up to a cart of treasures that means more than his pitiful lot. Less than his vengeance.

How do you fall into the arms of your father’s murderer? It’s easier than it should be. _I should kill you_ , a violent hissing, spittle flying, and this man, this murderer, he says, _I know_ , like he has no fight left, and you’re outraged, furious, because all this man did for centuries was fight. He hasn’t stopped fighting; you don’t think he can, only he’s standing in front of you and his hands are bare. His eyes are unlined, he is free of his armor and he doesn’t know how to turn back the clock. You fall into his arms because somehow, impossibly, he understands, and you are tired; and you try to forgive.


	2. 03.20.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On this weeks’ episode of, “Alana Copes with Once Upon a Time,” Emma Swan is really f*cking angry because her life isn’t a goddamn fairy tale and anyone who thinks otherwise is a naive garbage dumpster. Also, congratulations on the engagement you guys, seriously. **btw, swears abound.**_

Here’s the thing about Emma Swan’s mental state in the moments following a confession she should have heard two days ago: she’s angry. And sure, she’s angry at Killian, because, _yes_ , _of course_ , you tell the woman you plan to marry the finer points of the darkish past _before_  the proposal, but he’s not the only fuck-up between the two of them. The first emotion she feels is anger, because, quite honestly, it’s easier than being sad. Turning around and walking away is easier than being sad. 

She finds Henry’s storybook wedged between the couch cushions and fights the very real urge to set the thing on fire. She knows she can’t blame it all on the book, it is just a book after all. Not to mention the fact of her recent trip to a life-altering wish realm that had, almost uncannily so, opened her eyes to the absolute ridiculousness of destiny and fate and whatever else she’s supposed to face because she’s a hero or whatever. So, yes, stories matter—their stories matter—but this can’t possibly be all that they are or will be.

Emma Swan’s parents are Prince Charming and Snow White. How do you get past something like that? What kind of fucking expectations does that biographical nugget set for her own life? For the life of the man who ended up falling in love with her? Killian Jones has a goddamn pedestal problem. He’s got an expectations problem; so isn’t it just dandy that he’d up and fall in love with the Savior-child, True Love-product of the most perfect couple to ever exist? Logically, Emma knows that they’re not perfect—she’s seen them squabble over used baby furniture; dishes in the sink; full garbage can, the works, and _fucking yet_. And yet the storybook remains. The fairy tale _persists_ , and, clearly, it has it in for her happiness.

The pirate-turned-hero and the orphan-turned-princess had set the bar a little too high for themselves. It’s what she tries to tell him after the unattractive, slack-jawed stare and the violent, emotionally fraught shoving of his shoulder that she quickly pushes way, way down somewhere she can’t feel it anymore.

Why hadn’t he simply told her?

“I had never seen you so happy, Emma,” and she’s trying so, so hard to ignore the crack in his voice, “I only wanted you to be happy.”

Because of course he did, because _of course_ , the hero makes the princess happy, and he’s a hero and she’s a princess and her categorical _True Love_ has, somehow, by a cruel twist of fucked up coincidence, murdered a grandparent she has never, and will never, know. As much as the pain in her father’s eyes makes her heart clench, if she’s honest with herself, there’s a distance to the deceased that makes forgiveness easy.

The knowledge and brutality of Killian’s violence is not surprising. It’s something that they’ve discussed, by her request, by his need, _at length_.

“Did you somehow forget all that?” She asks, miserably, desperately trying to understand why the one moment they’ve _both_ been waiting for has been so unfairly distorted.

“Of course not—”

“Then why,” she interrupts, her voice unsteady, “why wouldn’t you just _tell me?”_

For someone who uses anger as a defense mechanism, she’s having a remarkably difficult time holding onto it when she sees the absolute look of despair that’s settled over his face. It’s hard when you know how happy they can be, how desperate they are to be loved, how hard they try at the expense of their own comfort.

There’s a good chance he has no idea—doesn’t recognize the treasonous thread that’s been running through both of their lives since before they had even met. Beginning with the unfortunate case of the sad orphan and ending with the looming threat of the “Happily Ever After.” There’s just _too much_.

“I think we were hoping for too much,” she admits quietly, her hand slipping into his. “I think sometimes we forget that our lives aren’t… stories—”

He looks into her eyes and she can feel the thread quivering, “…No matter how much we might want them to be.”

“Does this mean—”

“No, of course not,” she stops the barest _hint_  of that suggestion in its tracks, angrily, her hand tightening around his own, “it’s still just us.”

Despite the fact of his dark, burdensome secret being brought to light; the ensuing tension with her father, she would never be able to regret a single moment comprised of the two of them and nothing else. The truth of her words,  _It’s just you and me_ , because it’s one of the many reasons this thing works, the two of them. Because he knows the harshness of people, the harshness of the world in a way that no one else can—and she was so lonely before. She didn’t know just how much before she met him.

“I’m not a princess,” she admits quietly, almost reluctantly, “and you’re not a prince, and that’s… that should be okay, right?”

She can wield a sword and he a hook but she knows that there’s a part of both of them, a small, child-sized part, that wanted the perfection of the fairy tale—and all the easiness that came with it. The honesty, the goodness, the perfect timing. Both of them wanted it all.

“We can’t have it all,” she continues, hands coming up to frame his sweet, sullen expression, “but we don’t need _everything_. I just want _you_.”

The barely discernible, humble smile on his face is achingly familiar, and while she may have been able to smother the urge to torch Henry’s storybook earlier, there was no power on Earth that could keep her from kissing him now.

“You have me, Emma,” muttering the words against her lips in warm, wet, _love_ , “for however long you want, you have me.”

Their noses bump clumsily against one another and she grins into his kiss.

“Good.”


	3. 04.17.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because I literally can’t think of anything better or worse than marrying your best friend. Here’s a post-6x17 drabble for my addled heart and mind. I’ve come up with so many analogies for my frazzled organs today I can’t even keep track, but here’s a new one: My heart has been tossed around in one of those bingo wheels for the last 24 hrs. and it’s starting to bruise. Please pick a number._

The worst thing about being in love with your best friend is that you will always feel compelled to tell them everything. Even when it’s not really for them to know; even when you’re actually kind of annoyed with _them_ , and you want to tell _them_  about how annoying _they_  are being (and, obviously, you would tell your best friend about that irritating asshole you decided to fall in love with). Of course, the worst thing about being in love with your best friend is also, well, it’s the best, isn’t it? Because they will, without fail, want to hear about it.

“I missed you.” 

The words fall from her lips in a hushed mess against his neck, a hint of desperation hitting the warm, damp flesh with a smacking loudness she’s almost ashamed of. It’s strange to think that she had said those same words only a few days earlier, and how it had been so simple then. It hadn’t taunted her afterwards, it had felt normal and comforting; the kind of thing a woman says to the man she loves after he’s been out all day. It’s not desperate or disquieting, it’s what he expects to hear, it’s what you _both_ want to hear at the end of a long day without the other.

But now, tonight, in the aftermath of an engagement, a secret, a lie, an almost-escape, a loss, a return, magic _fucking_  pixie dust; it lands harshly in the air between them and she just wants to return to a few days ago when she had been able to pretend that all those things she had hated about herself _before_  were all in the past. All those fears and weaknesses she had felt growing up, right up until her 28th birthday in fact, had all been a thing of the past. All fixed. No longer broken.

“I missed you too, darling,” he answers against the crown of her head, only it doesn’t land so much as weave in and out between the fibers of her hair; it leaves a soft, careful caress against the flushed skin of her cheeks that only Killian Jones knows how to convey. Because he’s an asshole, is what he is.

She huffs and props herself up against his chest, desperately trying, in vain, to ignore the sensation of warmth and skin and hair against her own unfairly sensitive breasts and sternum, and it’s—whatever, she’ll just ignore it for now, because—

“How the hell do you even _do_ that?”

He looks mildly amused and predictably aroused as he pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “How do I do _what_ , Swan?”

“That thing you do, with the...”

She makes a vague, waving gesture with her hands, very nearly smacking him across the nose, “... _words_. And the face too, to be honest.”

“Emma—”

“I was so _mad_ at you.”

The tone of the conversation loses its playfulness, and for a second, she feels almost guilty about ruining the mood. They’d been so happy all evening, so relieved to be in one another’s company after so many days apart and it had been so difficult, living this life without him. He remains silent at her confession, his thumb continuing its steady, calming pace against her shoulder, and she knows—because his touch is honest and infuriating—she knows he wants to listen.

“I just always thought you would stay,” her gaze directed steadily at his chest, and she’s grateful he doesn’t pry or lift her chin, his silence almost deafening, “You never left. _Never_. And I told you I _missed you_  and we’d only been separated a few hours, and that’s _ridiculous_.”

You don’t miss someone after a few hours, and you certainly don’t _tell_  them about it. If they know you miss them after a few hours? That’s like... the end of the line for whatever dignity you _thought_  you might have had before. And the funny thing was that she hadn’t even _cared_  about that. “Screw dignity,” she had thought, gleefully, tugging on the lapel of his coat and going on about truly disgusting movie food that he would never even _consider_  eating.

“And you ruined it.”

She tries not to sniffle but she does, and she hates it, but his touch remains, all soft and safe and he doesn’t even flinch at the anger in her voice, and what’s worse is that she _knows_  he’s not the only one at fault. And she _knows_  there will inevitably be a discussion at some point, some morning, maybe tomorrow, over coffee and donuts where he’ll tell her so and she’ll agree and they’ll fuck on top of the table, but that’s _tomorrow_ , and right now—

“I was... normal, and fine, and I _missed_  you, and then you... left.”

“I would have come back, Emma, I was going to come back—”

“I know,” she interrupts, “I know you were going to come back, but I just feel like I lost somehow. Like I’d made all this progress and now we’re back at square one and you’ve got some more wall-chipping to do.”

“I love you,” his voice soft, yet firm, “just as you are. Walls and all.”

Maybe she’ll be a little bit broken forever, and maybe that’ll have to be okay, but at least she’s going to marry her best friend. At least he knows the wall is there. At least he’ll patch it up when it’s weakening, or knock it down when it’s no longer needed, or plant some flowers at its base. But at least he loves it. He loves what it protects and what it doesn’t. He loves _her_.

It kind of hurts, and she’s kind of scared, but she answers, “I love you, too,” and it doesn’t land with a heavy, foreboding echo, but it does float, gently, over her tongue and between her teeth, against his ridiculous chest hair, over his chin and against that clever tongue of his, and she’s just so, so grateful that she gets to marry her best friend.


	4. 04.24.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because I love those hours before the sun comes up, when you wake up for a moment and you realize you can stay in bed just a little while longer. And you’re safe. And there’s no rush. And it’s quiet. For all my hub loves. xo **Pre-pancakes, so it’s v smutty.** Don’t get me wrong, it’s highly emotional and descriptive, but it’s still porn. To experience the full **mood** of this thing, I’d recommend listening to [Max Richter’s “Three Worlds”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVLFh0tPTlQ) as you read._

It’s dark when she opens her eyes. Not the dark of late evening, when the stars have begun to twinkle in the sky—when the only sound to be heard is the choral chirping of insects, the darkening of doorways. No, it’s a darkness that knows it will have to fade eventually, a grey dawn that casts their bedroom in a hazy, dreamlike glow.

A nippy, quiet breeze smelling suspiciously of rain tiptoes through the open window and she catches the scent of him on the air. It’s a spicy mixture of cologne and sweat, a warm, enticing blend that clashes wonderfully with the fresh, tingling wetness of an impending storm. She can feel his rough, weathered fingers against the bare flesh of her waist. The tap, tap, tapping of his thumb against her belly. The smooth, hard metal of his ring against her stomach not unlike the steady ringing of a church bell, a far off song, a call to his side.

It’s silent except for the wind and his breath, the rustle of the sheets against their feet, the gentle whip, whip, whipping of the bedroom curtains. If she holds her own breath, she can almost hear the waves crashing against the rocks. When she breathes out, the rise and fall of their chests seem to move in time and she briefly wonders if this is what her parents must feel. Sharing a heart. Sharing breath. Warmth. Body.

“What time is it?”

His lips are warm, wet, and light as they traverse the sensitive skin of her throat and it’s quite a lot at present. It’s a simple question, and the answer makes her sigh with happiness, because, of course, the answer is, “It doesn’t matter,” because they can stay in bed for hours yet. They can enjoy the easy, steady safety of their blankets that surrounds them like a cocoon, the sound of the rain as it blows through the window and onto the hardwood floor. His lips against her throat (still, still, still), her lips, her cheeks, her arms, her legs, her... _everywhere_.

“Sounds perfect,” he hums again, the deep rumbling of his voice traveling down the long, sweeping breadth of her neck, behind her ribcage, through her belly, and landing, quite comfortably, within a warm, wet emptiness she’s started to feel between her legs. Like she was missing something and she didn’t know it. The timbre of his low, raspy voice in the quiet stillness of an early morning, somehow, remarkably, like coming home after a long, exhausting journey away.

They’d only slept for a few hours, 4 at most, but her body feels as if it’s been ages since it’s known him. Her hand travels backwards, across the dips and curves of their mattress to meet the wide, welcoming spaces between his fingers at her waist. Their entwined hands continuing onwards, over the swell of her hip, the soft flesh of a thigh, coming to rest somewhere atop her pubic bone, hard and tender all at once. Everywhere she’d like him and nowhere all at once. A delightful proposition.

“Is that a request?” 

Laughing playfully, his fingers tracing maddeningly slowly through soft hair, wet flesh, and she can feel her heart begin to pound so hard she’s sure he can feel the racing of her pulse beneath his lips.

“Please,” she whispers against the soft cotton of her pillow, her eyes fluttering shut.

“As the lady commands,” stifling his own, lovely whimper as he probes a bit further, his fingers slipping between her lips, teasing her entrance.

She can vaguely hear the wind and the rain beginning to whip wildly about the room, and while she suspects that the sudden, dramatic change in the weather has more to do with his clever fingers and her magic than changing weather patterns, it’s hard enough controlling her intake of breath and quivering gasps, so, the odds of containing her magic at the moment would appear to be zero to none.

She mumbles, begs, a whispered “Killian,” into the air and his fingers disappear, her own body being turned suddenly onto its back, her head sinking into the pillow as his lips descend against her open mouth. He swallows her gasp and returns his own in kind, a desperate, wanting thing that she can feel against the back of her throat.

His hand is gripping her thigh before she has a moment to ask where his fingers have gone, and he’s fitted snugly inside of her before she can start to complain; having been ready for him since before she opened her eyes it’s easy and wonderful and her teeth close around his bottom lip in surprise and delight.

“Bloody hell, Emma,” hissing against the shell of her ear when she _finally_ relinquishes her hold on his lip, and she matches the feeling of his smile with her own, sighing and laughing, her thighs cradling his waist.

He’s been still for a little too long when she urges him along with a gentle pinching of his hip, an arching of her back, and then he’s moving, barely, but it’s enough that there’s a sudden, surprising pressure in her abdomen and she can hardly believe she’s just about _there_ , and he’s got his hand framing her face as he’s laughing, full-bodied, into her waiting mouth and asking, a voice full of disbelief, “Not already?”

Yes, yes, _already_ , because she’s been ready since she opened her eyes and could barely make out the shapes of their furniture, and felt his breath and smelled his sweat and she just needs him to keep going and, “Don’t stop—”

“Never,” he pants breathlessly, his hand moving down the length of her torso, over a breast and again wrapped tightly around the meat of her thigh as he raises her leg _just_  enough, “Never.”

Thunder claps as she falls and she’s pretty certain her heart stops in the subsequent silence. It’s a good thing she can still feel his own beating fast and sure against her chest, his elbows collapsing under his weight as he lands heavy against her, her own body meeting and tightening and molding around his own and she can hear a quiet, gentle scolding in her ear.

“Hush,” she breathes out on a sigh, her hand running slowly up and down his back, their mutual inhales and exhales evening out with the quieting of the wind.

“Don’t play dumb, princess,” he jokes quietly, his wide, glazed over eyes meeting hers as he raises his head, “You know precisely well what you’re...”

Bone tired, her limbs soft and pliable she somehow finds the strength and clenches again and he stops, closing his eyes against the feeling of her beneath and around him, holding his breath, “...doing.”

“I do,” she answers with a nod, a rushed, sloppy kiss to the side of his hot, sweaty head, “I absolutely do.”

She thinks, briefly, of the time. The room is a bit brighter now, the glow from earlier fading like a thick fog in the bright, morning light. It can’t have been long since he asked earlier, a relatively benign inference that would, usually, be met with a simple answer. It’s 8 AM, 9 AM, 10 AM. It’s noon. It’s one. But not so this morning, not with all that extra time that awaits them now. Not with that ring around her finger. Not with that arm around her waist. His dirty clothes in the bin, tossed around with her own. Not with the the wind and the rain, and the soft, warm morning of tempting things.

The question remains unanswered as he carefully lifts himself off of her with a whispered promise of return, as he leaves her alone and bare to the wind, the final drops of rain, to the beautiful silence. It remains unasked and unanswered when he returns with a glass of a water, a warm cloth, a swift, gentle sweeping of her heated skin and she feels herself drifting on the air—in a half-sleep, a half, wondrous sleep where she worries for nothing, and feels the firm, gentle weight of his lips against her cheek, his words in her ear.

“Sleep, my love,” pulling the blankets over their damp, tired bodies, “it can wait.”


	5. 05.07.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _idk about anyone else on this hell-site, but I for one still demand a fucking rainbow kiss. I also demand a honeymoon unlike any other honeymoon that has come before. This is very much a hand-waving bit of fluffy nonsense that ignores the obvious adventuring that will occur between now and next Sunday evening, but, ya know what, they deserve. And we, yes, **we deserve**. Happy Wedding, y’all. This includes some **very minor** spec. for the finale._

The curse breaks with a goddamn kiss, because of course it does. And aside from the portal jumping... and the one-handed pirate debacle... and the musical singing thing and whatever else she’s endured these last few years, she’s managed to feel rather proud of her tumultuous love affair with Captain freaking Hook. They have, despite all odds, indulged in a relationship of almost profound normalcy.

“Oh, _mom_.”

“Can it, kid.”

* * *

 No, really, pretty normal, all things considered. They love one another deeply, but they fight like any other couple. Difference being, of course, that when she had fought with other... _intimates_ in the past, those fights had always seemed like an excuse to leave. These fights felt more like... “I’ll see ya later,” kind of spats. They could never stay mad at one another for long. It was that constant nagging in the back of your head, like you’ve left the stove on after leaving the house.

“The _kiss_ , mom?”

Right. There she was, lost in some other twisted version of reality with no memory of her family, her son, her husband that she had only _just_ married, and really, is it too much to ask for an uninterrupted wedding night?

She can vaguely remember him, in the hazy memories of alt. Emma in all her paranoid, crazed glory, her hair a tangled rat’s nest—and seriously, what’s the deal with alternate realities and messing with her hair? But she’s standing at the end of a long, checkered hallway, and there’s some kind of open window at her back, because she can feel cool air from outside, but there’s this man walking quickly towards her. His strides are long and purposeful, a heavy, black coat flapping in his wake, and she can even recall the sensation of looking for an exit.

But then he’s there in front of her, every sharp, dramatic inch of him. All blue eyes and tanned skin; smelling like the sea and damp wood. It’s familiar except that it isn’t, and he catches her knee with his hand before she can hit her mark.

“I don’t think so darling,” he smirks, “I’m prepared for that this time.”

“You better let go of me if you wanna keep that other hand.”

He had dropped her leg almost immediately, his hand and _hook_ raised in a placating gesture.

“Apologies, love, but I imagine you might regret doing any undo harm to... _me_. Later on, that is.”

“What is it that you want?”

His eyes seem to soften immediately at the question, and she finds herself confronted with the strange and sudden feeling that comes with resisting the urge to cry. Her throat gets tight, there’s a growing pressure behind her eyes, and she’s so confused and upset she almost tries to nail his bits again, but it’s his voice that stops her. A gentle lull that sounds almost like a song, and she can see his hand out of the corner of her eye, it’s hovering in the air as if it’s desperate to touch her—but he can’t, he won’t risk it, and her heart resumes an uncomfortably fast and irregular rhythm in her chest.

“Oh, Emma,” he starts softly, “I have only ever wanted you to be happy—”

He smiles again, only there’s an openness there that had been missing a moment ago, a piece of armor removed, and she’s helpless to stop the wetness she feels against her cheeks.

“And to be loved.”

“I don’t know love,” she whispers, ekes out, even, “or happiness.” The words barely leave her lips, but he hears them, and his head tilts, an indescribable melancholy painted across his damnably handsome features, and when he rests his hand against her heated face, she _almost_  remembers.

“But you do, darling. You _always_ have.”

When his lips meet hers she can taste the salt of her infuriating tears, the spiciness of a dark liquor she’s never known before, and in a blinding burst of kaleidoscopic light, she remembers.

“Killian.”

* * *

 There’s a dizzying period of merriment once they all return and the evil has been vanquished. For now, at least. The two of them are passed around town as if they were a high school mascot—a symbol of hope and victory that all of them desperately needed.

“Go home,” David urges once he’s finally gotten them alone, “We’ll make sure everyone’s alright.”

They say one final goodbye to her parents, inquire as to where Henry would like to spend the night (”Not with you,” is the very quick, red-faced answer), and then they’re off into the night, her shoes in one hand and Killian’s in the other.

As it turns out, Henry didn’t have much to worry about, as they fall into a deep, coma-like sleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow they end up sharing. Emma’s barely out of her dress and Killian’s only removed his suit jacket before they’ve tumbled atop their bed, hands entwined. With one final, lazy, sloppy kiss, they surrender to blissful nothingness.

* * *

 They make for The Jolly Roger before the sun rises. The town is quiet, dark, and peaceful, and despite the swiftness of their current journey, Emma takes a moment to enjoy a calmness she knows can’t last forever. Takes comfort in the knowledge that all her friends and family are safe and asleep in their own beds.

“Come on, love,” Killian whispers, tugging her towards the docks, “let’s sail away.”

* * *

 She is grateful for the infinitude of the sea. For the lack of land, the endless waves. The rocking of the ship as it sails in no particular direction. The warmth of the sun, and the cooling balm of the breeze. The salt against her browning skin, and the sweetness of their pilfered fruit as it hits her chapped lips.

They sail. She’s not sure for how long, but she does know a few things. Like how he had, in some wild fit of lust, ended up inside her before they’d even gotten a chance to raise the anchor, frenzied and intense, a quick, necessary joining that could not have been avoided even if her mother had shown up.

How Killian had gone out and bought new sheets for his (their) bed, had stocked the galley with all the food and drink they could possibly want. Or how fabulous it felt to go without a bra for a week (she assumes it’s been a week, anyway).

“And feel free to continue that tradition when we return, my love.”

“Oh, please.”

Or even, unexpectedly, but not unwelcome, how she absolutely cannot _wait_ to watch Killian read to their child. Or children, she hasn’t quite decided. She does know that it’s at least the one. He had read to her before, this wasn’t particularly new, but now, tucked in between his legs, his arm resting across her belly—it was like she was hearing the old, familiar stories for the first time.

In the past, he had gathered her into his arms and read story after story until her eyelids were too heavy to stay open. There isn’t much to be frightened of now, but she loves it all the same.

“Are you even listening, Emma?”

“Of course.”

 _Of course_  she’s listening, she’s just too busy imagining the little girl (because it is 100% a little girl, she feels it with such certainty it’s almost hard to breath sometimes) sitting in his lap, eyes and smile as wide as ever, hanging onto his every lovely, accented word as if it were the only story and the only voice she ever needed to hear. Never alone, never wanting, or aching, just knowing, from his voice alone, that he would never leave her.

“What did I just say?”

She might not be quite so eloquent as her husband, but she’s always been quick on her feet, and she pulls his lips to her own before she has to fumble around for an acceptable answer.

“You are _quite_  the pirate, Miss Swan.”

“Aye,” she answers, laughing, “I always suspected.”


	6. 06.05.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Colin O’Donoghue spoke out loud in front of people about kissing Josh Dallas because he’s got nice lips. I literally can’t get over it, so here’s an AU about sneaking into someone’s house so you can kiss them on the mouth without inciting unnecessary drama. For the #CCsquad._

Honestly, it’s just as well he avoid the conversation altogether. It’s not as if he’d call his brother especially conservative per say, he just... knows Liam Jones. Knows that the man is physically incapable of keeping his opinions to himself—particularly those that might involve his younger brother—and he knows his own mind, how his thoughts tend to go maddeningly on, and he’d just prefer to avoid the inevitably wasted week that would follow. A week of waking up at the literal arse-crack of bloody dawn to avoid running into him. A week of vague text messages and convincing Robin to revise the duty roster. His own brother. The man who raised him, bathed him, fed him, changed his nappies.

Killian Jones, _Lieutenant_ Killian Jones, a servant in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, sneaking his... friend in through the bloody window like they’re misbehaving school boys.

* * *

“I have clearance to sail on a vessel with nuclear weapons on it.”

David chuckles, his bicep resting behind Killian’s neck like a lumpy pillow, “Yes, so you’ve said.”

“Point being, I’ve got the ability to press a button and blow up the planet, yet I seem to be physically incapable of showing you through the door like a normal person.”

“I’ve walked through your door,” he sighs as he pushes Killian’s damp hair off his forehead, “Also, I’m pretty sure arming a nuclear weapon isn’t that easy.”

He plants a kiss on his forehead and Killian wants to die. Just a little bit.

“Go to sleep, Jones.”

“Trust me,” he answers softly, his voice heavy with sleep, “it is.”

When he wakes up the next morning he’s alone, the blankets tucked underneath his chin and he tosses them over his head in shame. What an unbelievable _prick_ he is.

* * *

The first night he’d tugged David’s unreasonably broad shoulders through his bedroom window was the same night Liam had started bugging him about meeting a girl.

“You’ve brought them home before,” he had stated reasonably, friendly enough, not even pressing, just politely inquiring, “I just wanted to make sure nothing’s the matter.”

“All’s well, brother,” Killian answered with a gentle smile, “I assure you.”

They’re both in their mid-20s so it is, admittedly, a bit juvenile, but David, bless his oversized heart, insists that there’s something romantic about the whole thing. Something about it being just the two of them, feeling like he’s in high school again and your heart’s beating fast because yes, maybe you’re somewhere you ought not to be, but it’s also beating because someone is looking at you like _that_  and it’s _everything_.

“Your shoulders barely fit through the window, love.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

* * *

Shockingly enough, Killian Jones has a reputation for being a bit rough-and-tumble. Liam, being Captain as he is, can’t officially condone it, but he has to admit, it’s gotten them out of some close-calls in the past—gotten the men to sit down and shut up when they need to. You wouldn’t think it, what with the rather slim shoulders and clean shaven face, but it’s the eyes (that’s what Dave says, anyway), it was the eyes that gave it away.

“And when you forget to shave,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to cradle his jaw, “goosebumps.”

It was a bit hard growing up, without parents, raised by an over-achieving brother pushing you to do well, but you, know-it-all teenager that you are, being unable to get your head out of your arse long enough to understand that he just wants what’s best for you. Pressing your lips to a woman’s neck and feeling utterly alive, seeing Graham Humbert’s hands tugging at your belt and feeling the exact same thing. Sipping cheap, garbage rum on the roof of your shitty apartment building and wondering what the fuck it all means.

Using your fists to make a point since no one cares what you have to say anyway, since all you’ve ever done is push people away or they leave you behind and it had just been easier that way, hadn’t it?

When Dave had seen that old picture of him on Facebook, that Liam had posted, of course—that everyone had laughed and jeered at, because look at him, _Lieutenant Jones_ , dressed all in leather, his hair grown sloppy over his face, and is that a hand-rolled cigarette in your mouth, mate? His back pressed up against that brick wall as if he were keeping something back, and _of course_ , David Nolan didn’t laugh.

They hadn’t even kissed, not yet. A handshake that feels a bit too firm sometimes, a heavy hand on the shoulder, a longing glance across the room, but that had been all. Killian couldn’t be sure, and he hadn’t wanted to risk losing him, he had been too good a friend for that, and Dave had just stared at the photo, and stared back at him, and Killian had fought that heated blush with all he had.

“You’ve changed so much,” he finally said, his voice proud and warm, “must’ve been hard.”

Killian’s voice, the deep, older voice of a grown man, cracking just enough, “Yeah,” he answered, “Yeah, it was.”

* * *

The pull-out is too small for the two of them.

“It’s fine,” David’s breath against his neck, large hands down by his waist, “it’s big enough.”

And this ex-junkie, ex-delinquent with the dirty hair and the leather jacket and the sodding flask all out of breath and trying to get a word in edgewise insisting that he’s a grown man and he really needs his own place.

“I don’t know,” rising up on his elbows, his grinning face staring down at a flushed, rumpled Lieutenant, “it’s kind of fun.”

David looks like a golden retriever puppy when he’s excited, and the furious teenager that stays hidden away under years of formal navy training cannot believe that Killian “Hook” Jones would sink so low as to associate with such an absolute _sap_.

He catches David’s own disproportionately slim hips between his thighs and manages to execute a surprisingly smooth flip, his own hands coming up to catch his wrists before he can interfere, “Must you be so infuriatingly optimistic?”

“I must,” answering with a smile, “it’s all 80s grunge and David Lynch movies in there,” gesturing towards Killian’s chest with his head, “the least I can do is appreciate the couch.”

“I’ve had this couch since Liam dragged it in off the street when we were kids,” their lips hovering teasingly against one another’s, barely a space of breath between them, “I’d watch for lice if I were you.”

Laughing and wrestling and falling off the old couch that _is_  too small for them and David Nolan _really_ doesn’t deserve the bedroom window.

* * *

“How do that man’s shoulders even _fit_  through that window?”

Killian whips his head back around to his brother leaning up against the kitchen counter, watching their friends loudly yelling at the television, spilling beer all over the carpet that he had _just cleaned_  for Christ’s sake.

“What did you just say?”

“I imagine it’s sort of amusing, actually. Shoulders like that. Small window. Like Marilyn Monroe in that film, the one with the singing?”

“Sure, that narrows it down, brother.”

He’s still trying to figure out if he can escape the minefield of this conversation, glancing over at the den trying to catch David’s eyes but the man is totally enamored by the game, and he would appear to be adrift in a sea of overprotective, vaguely patronizing concern.

“He would probably feel much more comfortable walking through our human-sized door, wouldn’t you say?”

Killian pauses, his fingers nervously picking at the wet label of his beer, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation that comes with actually _breaking a sweat_.

“...I suppose.”

“Let him use the door, Killian,” Liam says finally, his eyes crinkling happily at the corners, “and buy a bloody bed.”


	7. 07.21.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Josh know how to blush. They’re all sharp edges and manliness and then it’s just like, ok but they’re strawberries, idek what this is. I mean I kind of do, but it’s also high-key ridiculous. Also, totally inspired by [this dumb fucking .gif set](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com/post/162870636546/lumadreamland-one-last-prince-charming-meme-day).

It's mid-June and everyone is out picking and plucking every piece of fruit they can find. It's early days yet, but it's already full of wine and sun and salt water. If the first few days are any indication, the next few months are guaranteed to be some kind of classic summer fever dream. David has always held a particular fondness for fresh fruits and vegetables, straight from the earth. Even the feeling of the grit between his teeth, the granules of dirt. There’s something undeniably satisfying about the whole rustic, cyclical thing. His whole life, the turning over of the soil and the pulling over of the nets and the harvesting; goodness, the harvesting.

The strawberry crop this year is a thing of unrepentant beauty. As if their red, soft flesh has managed to absorb the warmth of the sun even after the clouds have passed overhead. That warm, mild taste exploding on your tongue under the light of a full moon, where you’d least expect to find it.

When Killian blushes, the round fullness of his cheeks look to be about the same color. Which is, of course, ridiculous.

* * *

“I do not,” Killian himself had insisted, scrubbing at his face with clumsy hands, “I am quite manly, thank you very much.”

They’d had a good deal of booze already, an odd combination of home-brewed wine and cheap rum that he could not convince Killian to stop drinking. He had developed the habit of touching his own face a lot when he imbibed a bit more than advised, like he was checking to see if it was still there.

David pulled his hand away and interlaced their fingers, “Stop that, you’re gonna poke yourself in the eye again.”

“Bloody hell, that was  _one time_.”

It would be easy to let go but he doesn’t, even with the slightly sweaty feeling lingering between their palms. There’s a spread of fresh foods and drink sitting between the two of them, a whole array of fruits and vegetables taken from the garden. Killian had always been a good judge of these things, especially after he got back from the war.

“Not a lot of fresh fruit overseas,” he had explained, glossing over the subject as if it were unimportant, “I guess I just appreciate it more now.”

Even when they were kids, all that frozen and powdered shit that was all Liam had been able to afford for the two of them. And David’s family had this nice farm with all this fresh, healthy food and he’d see Killian during gym class. He ate enough to get through the day, but he was all spindly legs and arms, and he’d crash on the bus on the way home everyday.

He’s filled out since middle school, but he still falls asleep in the passenger seat of David’s truck during long trips. The concern that David had felt as a teenager is still there, only it’s been endowed with something he hasn’t been able to put a name to just yet. He had felt it for the first time after picking Killian up from the airport, glancing over every few minutes to make sure he was alright. Unused to the sight of his hair shaved so close to his head, a faded bruise along his cheekbone and nails bitten to the quick.

* * *

David’s hand is still wrapped around his own and he is... unsure of how to handle that particular development. His face is still numb, but his arms and back are warm, even as they sit in the cooling shade of a large tree.

He’s half-tempted to feel for his own face again, because in the last few minutes it could very well have disappeared, but one of those hands is currently occupied and he’s afraid of ruining the moment (if there’s even a moment to ruin).

He wants to bite back at the accusation that he’s one to blush. It’s an absurd attack on his manliness, as if the automatic weapons and months of military training weren’t enough to prove that fact. He wants to point out the hypocrisy of it, as if David Nolan was never one for a flushed face.

* * *

The man might blush with intoxication, like most people, but that’s not when Killian notices. He notices in the heat, in the hard work, in the humility. His face turns the pleasing shade of a good wine, watered down a bit with too many ice cubes.

“If we were drinking from proper glasses, I’d show you,” he mumbles, staring miserably at the dark bottle between them, “but you have no proper manner for these things.”

David laughs, “You and Liam broke the only wine glasses I’ve ever had, which were my  _mother’s_  by the way.”

“Yeah,” he answers, wincing, “I remember the yelling.”

The shade makes the heat manageable, but it’s the wind blowing through the leaves that provides the actual relief, cooling his heated face and neck. David lets go and stands, but not before dropping his hand on Killian’s shoulder and stretching his arms high above his head. His t-shirt lifts with the movement and there’s a brief glimpse of tanned skin covered in a fine layer of sweat and lightly colored hair.

He can feel the heat return to his face despite the breeze, and he gives himself a small slap, reaching for a handful of strawberries from the bowl in front of him. They taste sweet, more so than any year in recent memory, and with every bite he can recall David in their teenage years, bestowing a kindness he had been too young to properly have.

* * *

There’s always that weird moment after you’ve let go of someone’s hand where you have to figure out how to make sure the other person knows you’re not letting go because you actually  _wanted_  to. Logically, David knows that most people won’t take it personally, it’s not as if you could go on holding someone else’s hand forever, but he also knows Killian Jones. He’s seen the hundred-yard stare and the nervous leg going up and down, up and down. This would appear to be one of the better days, and he doesn’t want to ruin it, so he places a gentle hand on Killian’s shoulder and tries not to worry about how small he feels.

“Good this year?” he asks with his arms stretched to the sky, relishing the feeling of the wind against his stomach.

Killian mumbles in return, his mouth full of small, red fruit, some of the juice gathering at the corners of his lips, and David can remember the taste in his own mouth. But he’s known that taste every summer of his life, warm and fresh, tart and sweet all at once—the first time he had given Killian some at school, watching that first bite. There’s nothing quite like it. Years have passed since that afternoon, but somehow it’s still the same; a quiet, blissful moment.

“Quite,” Killian finally answers, smiling, wiping the back of his hand over his lips. “You’ve outdone yourself, mate. I’ll have to take some back to Liam.”

A cloud passes over the sky, but the heat remains, and David thinks longingly of the clear, cool lake at the bottom of the hill.

“Swim?”

Killian stands, grabbing the half-empty bottle of wine as he goes, his cheeks a satisfying shade of red. He extends a hand, looking out towards the small path leading towards the woods. A bird calls.

“After you.” 


	8. 07.22.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic request: "barista Killian and vintage bookstore owner David"

The thing about the worn bench in Central Park is that they had fallen in love while sitting on it. That is to say, over the course of multiple sits, not just the once and all of a sudden they were in love and that was that.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen someone puke on this bench,” were some of the first words David had even said to him. Not his most charming, to be sure. And the man could be quite charming when he wanted to be.

* * *

“I was being thoughtful,” frequently reminding Killian of his honorable intentions, “I’m sorry it wasn’t the absurd, romantic meet-cute you’ve been secretly waiting for your whole life, tough guy.”

To be fair, it was probably the least romantic moment in a string of movie-like moments, so he should really count himself lucky.

“I’m not at all sure why I’m the one getting kicked in the teeth for the romance,” he answers, nudging one of Dave’s unreasonably large shoulders, “you run a used bookshop in the middle of Manhattan.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

“You’re quite impossible, do you know?”

They’d seen one another around often enough, but they don’t really speak until David wanders into the coffee shop and leaves a first edition copy of  _To the Lighthouse_  at the bar. The man just gets up and leaves it behind.  _To the Lighthouse_. A first edition copy. Killian wraps it carefully in one of their clean hand towels and leaves it in a locked drawer in his office.

* * *

_“My mum would have smacked you one,” he says later, lost in a wave of nostalgia on their favorite bench, “don’t know what you were thinking.”  
_

_David’s got his nose in the paper, reading something or other about the current political travesty, so he’s a bit on the distracted side when he answers, “I was thinking about the dashing man behind the counter.”  
_

_“That’s not always going to work you know.”  
_

_He smiles, turning a page, and the smell of it hits Killian square in the nose. “Sure it won’t.”_

* * *

David had inherited the bookstore, it hadn’t been a lifelong dream or passion of his, but it paid the bills and he liked the work fine. Out of the two of them, it’s really Killian who should be running the shop, so his blundering in all handsome and outraged ends up being quite fortuitous.

“Excuse me,” he started, deceptively polite, “does this belong to you?”

Despite the anger simmering beneath the surface, he had slid the book gently across the counter. David’s own attention at the time occupied with an online order. “I’m sorry?”

“This book, mate,” Killian had reiterated, placing the single tip of a pointed finger against the cover, “does this belong to you?”

There’s a first edition copy of  _To the Lighthouse_  on his counter and David suddenly recalls that he had misplaced his copy a few days ago, but had quickly considered it gone. It wasn’t worth  _that_  much after all.

* * *

_"It wasn’t about the monetary value, you prat.”  
_

_“I run a business, Killian, money is an unfortunate part of it sometimes.”  
_

_“Shop would be in the bloody gutter if not for me.”  
_

_“Of course, my love.”_

* * *

“Oh, yeah,” David had finally answered, partially relieved, “I thought it was gone, man, thank you.”

He goes to grab the book off the counter only Killian’s entire hand has appeared over the front of it, his few rings acting like an extravagant shield over the cover.

“Do you own this shop?”

“Um,” David had answered, confused, “yes?”

“I’m not certain I can give this back to you,” he said slowly, pulling the book back towards himself, “not until you’ve learned how to properly handle your own merchandise.”

“Do you not see the shelves full of books?” he asked sarcastically, “I’m pretty sure I have it covered.”

“Evidently not, you left a first edition Woolf in a coffee shop in the middle of one of the world’s most crowded cities.”

David sighs and means to continue their discussion, argument, whatever the hell it is, but a customer walks in and starts asking a million and one questions and he gets distracted. When he looks up, the handsome, snobby Brit with the Woolf fetish seems to have disappeared.

“Asshole,” he mumbles to himself, trying not to think about the color of the guy’s eyes or how well he wore that leather jacket.

* * *

The bench and puke thing happened shortly after that. With  _To the Lighthouse_  peeking out of Killian’s messenger bag. Followed by, “Shouldn’t that be covered in bubble wrap or something?”

“I’ve the matter well in hand,” Killian had answered smartly, taking a sip of his coffee, “No need to worry.”

It had been a brisk fall afternoon, with a bright sun moving in and out between heavy, foreboding clouds. There was a crisp smell in the air, somewhere between wet leaves and a first snowfall, with the warm, spicy scent of his coffee trailing lazily afterwards. He can recall the color of his cheeks that day, a disarming shade of pink, with his pale fingers wrapped around his cup for warmth.

“My hero,” he had blurted out unexpectedly, his own face betraying his surprise at the flirtatious remark that had just left his lips.

Killian smirked, his own eyes twinkling, “I go where I’m needed.”

* * *

_“A true man of the people,” he says laughing, planting a kiss on the delightful curve of Killian’s flushed face. “Where would the city’s snobs be without you?”  
_

_“Listen—”  
_

_He starts to rebut in that exasperated way of his, the accent developing a few more flourishes and the vocabulary expanding like a balloon, but David silences him with a kiss before he can continue, his lips firm, warm, and sufficiently distracting._

_“That’s not always going to work,” he says again, breathily. With his eyes closed, his lashes resting long and lovely against his face, and David smiles.  
_

_“Sure it won’t.”_


	9. 07.22.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic request: "I'm home sick with just the worst stomach bug. I wondered if maybe you could write CS + sick days? Like maybe Emma nursing Killian to health with modern remedies? Something like that?(:"

Modern medicine is indeed a marvel, but it only takes you so far. Somewhere, way, way back in the hidden recesses of his mind, he can remember his mother. Her soft voice, gentle hands—the way she would feel his forehead, wipe away the damp hair, wet with fever. Anyone can force a potion down your throat, a foul tasting remedy meant to alleviate whatever symptoms of illness you might be displaying.

The alchemy in this land without magic, it is effective, there’s no denying that, but sometimes you just need that little something extra. Something like a hand on your forehead, or a song in your ear.

* * *

_“I’m not so much with the caregiving,” she had admitted quietly, looking on with frustration at his obvious misery. “I can run to the store and get the pills, but after that I’m kind of useless.”  
_

_“Nonsense, Swan,” he had answered reassuringly, “you’re the most caring person I know.”_

* * *

That had been a few years ago now, and in that time, what with their various injuries and illnesses, Emma has developed an aptitude for care that her past self would be stunned by. Not that she hadn’t been caring before, for all of her fumbling nervousness he had never felt more loved. Canned soup or homemade, it didn’t matter much to him. Not after 300+ years and however many colds and fevers and open wounds fought in solitude on the high seas.

It’s down to a science now, and thank goodness, because he doesn’t think he’s ever had a fever quite this high, and he can barely make it up and down the stairs.

“You need to stay in bed,” she insists, trying to hide the worry in her voice, albeit poorly. “You’re made of muscle and I can’t carry you up and down those stairs,” jokingly, stoking the small fire of an ego lost somewhere beneath the migraine and spinning ceilings.

Fittingly, there’s a storm brewing something fierce outside the windows, and he suspects Emma’s magic—knowing the weather as he does, now’s not the season for a storm of this magnitude. He tries, somewhat pathetically to smile up at her from his place at the edge of the bed.

“I’m fine, Swan, on my honor.”

His body betrays him, what with the stuffed up nose and somewhat nasally tone of voice, he doesn’t sound all that great. Not to mention the abrupt chill in the air that leaves him shaking like a loose sail.

“I’ve never been less confident.” She sighs and goes to remove his damp t-shirt, “I know you’re cold, but this damp thing isn’t helping. Lay back, okay?”

His neck aches even as he rests his head against the soft pillows she’s propped up against the headboard, and he’s dying for a mug of hot tea.

“I’ll make you some tea in a minute, okay?”

Her hand is warm against his forehead as she flips it, front to back against his sweaty brow. “Oh, Killian,” softly, her voice sad, and he  _hates it_ , “it’ll be okay, alright? I’ll be right back.”

The fever must be at its height, because he grabs her hand without even realizing he’s done it, his jaw chattering as he tries to speak, “Swan—”

“Killian,” she says again, gently, returning to her place at his side. She’s still got his hand sandwiched between her own, even though it’s probably clammy and shaky and he’s never felt more useless. “Killian, I’ll be  _right back_ , okay?”

He still can’t seem to let go of her hand. It seems quite likely, in his fever-addled mind, that were he to cease touching her, either of them could simply vanish in an instant. There’s a flash in his head, like a dark cabin and a rough sea rocking him back and forth, back and forth.

She sighs as he tightens his grip. “Okay,” nodding and smiling, “Okay, what’s all that magic for if not for this, right?”

With a practiced twist of her hand, a bowl of water and a dry cloth appears on the night stand, and she soaks it for a moment, humming all the while. She doesn’t have the most elegant of singing voices, his Swan, but it’s comforting all the same. A bit raspy, a bit off-key, but perfect.

The hot water smells vaguely of mint, and he can feel the steam from the hot water clear his nostrils and alleviate the pressure in his chest. The warmth feels good against the chill, despite the alarming amount he seems to be perspiring, and thankfully he feels his heart begin to slow with her ministrations.

“There, see?” she says, smiling through his blurred vision, “Better?”

“Much,” he croaks, “love you.”

It’s the last thing he can manage before his lids grow heavy, the pounding rain turning to a quiet drizzle against the windows.

“You too,” he hears against the shell of his flushed ear, her lips against his temple, “get some sleep.” 


	10. 07.30.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In before S7 fucks with a happy ending and we don’t get to see any of this. Unequivocally here for Emma Swan being a mom from day one on her terms. I love Killian as a pop don’t get me wrong, but I wanted this, ok? Let me have it. Oh, and disclaimer, I am not pregnant nor have I ever been pregnant, so forgive me if some of the details are totally incorrect. We’re going for mood here, okay?_

There’s an odd, fleeting moment in which she worries that her body is made of nothing more than wet paper. It’s odd for a few reasons, one of them being she’s been pregnant before; the other being the all-powerful magic coursing through her veins acting in direct contradiction to that concern. All those blue, river-like rivulets running beneath her pale, vulnerable flesh, and she feels like she may as well be nothing more than a paper doll for a few hellish moments.

She thinks of how easily the body breaks, how the tip of an especially sharp sword can run straight through as if you weren’t even there. Only you are, and she was, and it fucking hurts. It’s a difficult thing to forget when you’ve felt that particular sting, that strange, unsettling feeling of being something akin to a leaky faucet.

And not just once, but hundreds of times. Hundreds of unbearable, nauseating visions of a death she had been helpless to prevent.

* * *

_“It’s not like I’m just seeing it,” she had explained to Killian, “I can feel and hear everything. Even taste the blood in my mouth.”_

_He had only looked at her, helpless, a man of action without the tools to help the woman he loves, and the guilt had been crushing. To be the reason behind that look on his face, to cause even more pain in a life built on tragedy and she can’t bear it. So she will, of course._

* * *

It's warm and July and she pees on a stick with her skirt hiked up over her knees. The variation in wardrobe was an unusual change of pace for her, she’s aware. The strange looks from the friendly townsfolk are entirely unnecessary. Like how dare she be outfitted in anything other than jeans. God forbid. A quick trip to a used clothing store and the small issue of temperature-related discomfort had been resolved. Her closet is full of button-up dresses and long, breezy skirts she’s probably seen on a few episodes of  _Friends_  but it’s whatever—she’s finally comfortable.

She should get a blood test to be sure, she knows. But also?  _She knows._  She's always felt like she knows less than she does; it's a constant battle she's fought for most of her life but this? This she knows. So she tosses the stick in the trash and smooths out her skirt and waits out on the porch with a bottle of cold beer in her hand. Because she knows she'll miss the weight of it. The feel of the smooth glass against her skin, those first few sips when it’s managed to stay as cold as she likes.

No more beer from here on out. Or wine... or rum, which is going to make that exaggerated pout show up on Killian’s stupid face more often than not. Which isn’t so bad. He’s got a nice face and she’s been craving fruit juice lately anyway.

When he hops up the front steps a few moments later he looks pleasantly exhausted. The sunburn from a few days ago has turned to a healthy brownish glow, and she takes note of the dirt around his neck, on his hand and forearms. It could be the hormones (and really, her libido and Killian Jones have never been remotely appropriately timed before), but she very much wants to see if she’s right about how he must taste right now. Like salt and earth and something so uniquely his own—flavors and scents she’s just never been able to place. His skin is probably warm from being out in the sun all day.

She almost starts at the sound of his voice, carrying a humorous edge that suggests she’s been sitting in curious, rude silence since his arrival. 

“Swan? You planning on drinking that?”

“Oh,” she answers, laughing and shaking her head, “no, I changed my mind, you go ahead.”

He winks as he takes the beer from her outstretched hand, and she pauses to take in the scene. As if there was a camera in her hand, like she needs to remember every single detail of this moment. The sight of the beaded condensation, dripping down the side of the bottle as it sweats in the sun; his long, thick eyelashes sweeping over the tops of his cheeks when he winks. There’s a familiar summer breeze whipping through the trees, and she feels the bottom of her skirt wrap around her bare feet.

“How was your day, my darling?” he asks, taking a seat next to her, his arm falling over her shoulders. “Get any of that planting done?”

She’s not sure when exactly it happened, maybe many years ago when Henry was born, or maybe a few months ago when she got married, or maybe that time has yet to come, but objectively Emma Swan is an adult. She has a child, she’s on the brink of having another, she’s loved and lost and loved again—she’s responsible for the safety of an entire magical community, and yet she giggles at the question, seemingly powerless to stop the unattractive snort that follows.

“I know I’m clever, love, but I wasn’t aware I said something amusing just then.”

“It’s—I’m sorry,” she tries to say, tries very hard to clarify, “I’m sorry, it’s not... well, I mean, it’s not that funny unless you have all the information.”

“I know I’ve been gone most of the day,” he answers, taking another sip, “but I can’t fathom what could’ve happened in the few hours since I saw you last that would make what I said so delightful.”

She knows he’s having a hard time not being charmed by her laughter, her inability to make sense.

_“I love you at your most unfathomable, you know.”_

_“I know.”  
_

And a part of her feels just a little bit cruel, taking an odd kind of joy in his total ignorance. There’s another part of her, a larger part, that wants to bask in these few moments before their lives change forever. Before he very inelegantly chokes on his beer, or even worse, drops the bottle on the porch and runs off to clean it up before he can properly digest the news.

There’s also another, smaller part of her, the selfish part, that doesn’t want to share the news just yet. And she knows she’s a veritable kaleidoscope of feeling in this moment, but it’s just, right now? Right at this moment, in the few hours and minutes and seconds before she reveals the news, this child is hers and hers alone. It’s not as if she doesn’t want Killian to be a part of this, doesn’t want to share this responsibility with her partner, her lover, her friend—but it’s that same childish part of her she just hasn’t been able to shake. Like the extra roll at dinner, sat at a table with 10 other hungry children and they had deigned to give her the last one.

And then there’s the double-edged reality of having to share Killian. The other thing she’s never had to share. Until now, that is. What child of Killian Jones is going to want to be deprived of his attention for even a moment? It’s an addicting thing, the feeling of his eyes on you, the knowledge that he will do all in his power to resolve every inconvenience, no matter how slight.

“Emma, are you alright?” 

“Yeah, sorry,” she smiles and gazes adoringly at his jawline in her periphery, bumps her nose against the late day fuzziness, the smell of yeast and saltwater on his lips, “I’m just... taking a minute.”

“To do what?” he asks, placing the empty bottle at his feet. He tucks some stray, short pieces of hair behind her ear. After she’d had it cut earlier in the spring, Killian had delighted in having to constantly push the light, freshly trimmed pieces away from her face.

It’s when she feels him getting distracted, his own nose prodding at her neck, his lips against her bare shoulder, that she finally concedes. Gives in to the fluttering in her belly and tries to ignore the loud voices of other, less experienced Emma’s in her head and says, almost in a whisper—

“To tell you that I’m pregnant.”

* * *

She keeps the windows open all summer, through the fall and into winter. Wears loose clothing that she can take on and off without difficulty. She indulges in every single craving, for food or sex, there’s very little hesitation in obtaining either. She cries all the time and doesn’t feel bad about it (most of the time). Had tried to hide it at first, had worried it was getting to be a bit too much for the doting husband and he had to be getting sick of it.

“You’ll never be rid of me,” he said, soft but firm, wiping the tears away. Probably getting some snot on his hand, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Remember?”

“Yeah,” she answered, smiling through the embarrassing hiccups that come with too much crying and not enough air, trying not to worry about how heavy she must be on his lap, “yeah, I remember.”

As it turns out, pregnant, non-jailed Emma loves green beans. They store up a lot of their fresh ones from the garden, but they run out sometime after Christmas and she insists that if she uses magic, “they just don’t taste the same.”

It’s probably got something to do with the soil or the sun, or just good old fashioned hard work, but either way, they run out and she resorts to eating frozen beans from a bag.

“They taste like the freezer,” she mentions one morning, eating from the bag as if they were potato chips, staring a little too hard at Killian’s shoulders while he washes the dishes.

“That icebox is a bloody marvel,” he answers, ignoring her complaints, “you’re eating those out of season, if you’ll recall.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Then stop eating them.”

She huffs and walks away as proudly as she can, which is challenging with the large, unattractive gait and swollen feet.

* * *

When she had been pregnant with Henry, she had spent most of the time resenting his existence. Had hated the look of her enormous belly under her jumpsuit, his small kicks against her spine.

“I wasn’t angry,” she confessed to Killian one night, “not really.”

They were side by side, covered in thick quilts since Emma refused to keep any of the windows shut, whispering in conspiratorial tones as if her parents were sleeping down the hall and she could get busted for having a boy in her room.

“I mean, I was,” she corrected, trying to figure out how the hell she felt about something so complicated as carrying a child she knew she couldn’t keep, “but it was because I knew I’d have to give him up. So I hated every minute of it,” pausing, “I guess I was more sad than anything else.”

“Henry knows how much you love him, Emma,” he answered sleepily, his hand resting against the top of her belly as it always did these days, as if they were magnets, “you needn’t feel guilty.”

“I know, but I can’t help it sometimes.”

Reason 1,475,399 Killian Jones is one of the greatest men she’s ever known—he’s learned to let her wallow in it. Especially since she’s gotten pregnant. It would be great, if he could fix every single thing wrong with her life, really, it’d be amazing, but realistically, it’s not going to happen, and sometimes it feels good when he says nothing at all.

Because, yeah, having another baby that you’re going to keep and love and raise from birth while your abandoned child looks on with just that little... hint of longing in his eyes, and she knows that look because she has it too, it just... it really sucks. And there’s no getting around it, so sometimes her husband keeps his lovely mouth shut and holds her a little bit tighter instead.

* * *

Her water breaks in early spring and she refuses to give birth in a hospital. In any sterilized environment of any kind. The mere thought of it sends her reeling, and since Killian doesn’t really know any better, he doesn’t put up much of a fight.

“I was born at home,” he says, almost like he’s talking to himself, “turned out just fine.”

“And it  _will be fine_ ,” squeezing his hand. “I promise.”

There’s a midwife on hand, and her mother. Killian stays in sight the entire time, his expression alternating between abundant joy and feverish worry. Thankfully, labor doesn’t take very long. Although, technically, she had been in labor for about a day, she hadn’t really notified anyone until there were a few more hours before she could even start to push.

“You can be mad at me later, okay?” she had muttered between clenched teeth, trying to breathe and failing miserably. “I need you to call my mother.”

“Impossible woman,” he had mumbled underneath his breath, phone in hand. It was when she noticed the smile on his face, the one that he couldn’t contain? That was when she finally felt it. The happiness.

* * *

Her name is Lucy and she smells like what Emma imagines Home to smell of. Like clean countertops and fresh air. And Killian’s tea steeping on the nightstand, and her favorite lotion and the scent of his cabin on The Jolly Roger and all the things you might name if you were a poet. Which she’s not. All she knows is that Lucy smells amazing and she can’t stop kissing the top of her head. Which is covered in hair.

“Lucky kid,” she whispers, smiling up at Killian, “wonder where she gets that from.”

It’s amazing that he’s even heard her, what with the inability to look away from their daughter, his eyes glazed over. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

She’s also soft, and Emma can’t stop running her fingers back and forth over Lucy’s small wrists, or her fingertip down her nose. Which is small and petite, like a button she can’t stop pressing. She never even held Henry. There’s a memory of it, somewhere in the back of her mind, but she knows it’s a falsehood, and this is real—perhaps the realest moment she’s ever known.

She keeps meaning to ask, “Want to hold her?” but she’s not sure she can let go just yet, and Killian seems to understand. Every once in a while she can feel his hand against the back of her head, or hear the odd sniffle. Lucy’ll be in his arms soon enough, and she can’t wait for it, really. She knows it’ll be a sight to see. Just—in a second.

* * *

One of her favorite things to do after the baby’s born is sit on the porch with Lucy in her arms. Swaddled in a blanket, resting against Emma’s warm, vital chest. Their hearts beating together. She’s quieter than Emma expected, what with her rather stubborn parentage, but the more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense.

The way Killian stills in the quiet of an empty room, that faraway look she’s seen in his eyes. Her own yearning for the silent spaces, those places where she can be entirely herself. As a smaller foster kid in a large, noisy household, she had always found a place to hide. Lucy’s just the same, a silent observer with the exception of some adorable grunts or whimpers, and Emma knows they should count themselves lucky.

“I for one can’t wait for that laugh,” he had said one morning, the back of his finger stroking her plump, red baby cheeks. “Isn’t that right, m’lady?”

No laughter, not yet, but she sure smiles a lot, especially with Killian hovering over her, talking in prose and treating her like a princess.

“Well, she  _is_.”

Sometimes Killian joins her in the morning, other times he’s had to head down to the docks early, but either way, rain or shine, it is one of her very favorite things. It’s how she knows she was right before—holding on to all that pain and regret. All that sadness after losing Henry. It hadn’t been for nothing.

It’s coming up summer again, but the mornings are still cool enough that she takes a quilt outside, a mug of hot tea since she still can’t have caffeine and too much sugar isn’t great for the baby either.

Some wildflowers have started to bloom around the porch, down towards the gate, and she gets a whiff of it as soon as she sits down. The heady, perfume-like aroma has her feeling all kinds of content, the weighted sensation of Lucy in her arms an added perk.

“How are you this morning?” she asks softly, rocking her ever so slightly, trying to avoid jostling a baby with a full belly. “Are you happy?”

Lucy coos, not quite a laugh, but it’s there, bubbling under the surface. All it’ll take is one smile from Killian, some silly sea shanty and it’ll all be over. She’s never felt so relieved in her life, so exceedingly grateful to know the calm, joyful notes of her daughter’s heart. To know that her daughter is one of those people who has no reason to be found—she was never lost. A child so loved, that there’s no need to make a rush of anything. Laugh when you want, cry when you want, speak when you want.

“You just take your time,” she whispers, smiling down at the full, tired expression on Lucy’s face. “We’ll be right here.”


	11. 08.12.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic prompt for 120+ listeners over [@podeverafter](http://podeverafter.tumblr.com): College AU where David’s never even been kissed, and one night he tells best bud Killian while they’ve been drinking, and Killian’s like, let’s fix that then.

David Nolan is sick to goddamn death of the assumption that just because he’s… ya know. Whatever, pleasing to look at, does not necessarily equate with being a Lothario. He’s well aware of the fact that this is the kind of bullshit women have been putting up with forever—this freakish, inappropriate time stamp on your sexual timeline—and he’s truly outraged on their behalf. He’s also outraged on his own behalf, because it’s no one’s business who he kisses but his own, and he never asked for your opinion,  _Abigail_.

Abigail was a girl in high school who made going after his dick an olympic sport. It would’ve been kind of funny if it hadn’t made him so wildly uncomfortable. The constant text messages, the invading of the personal space, the updating her relationship status on Facebook when they’d barely spoken more than a few words to one another? But the worst thing about it was the fact that no one could understand why.

“Why say no, man?” Was the oft-quoted catchphrase of his friends on the football team; even some of his female friends couldn’t quite understand his hesitance. All those hormones making an incessant racket in there; you don’t say no, not even to the potentially unstable ones.

“I don’t mean,” he says quickly, trying to walk back the implication, “I don’t mean she was ‘unstable,’ Abigail ended up being a very nice person—”

It’s freshman year in Montréal, David Nolan is finally free of small town USA, and he doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to develop the reputation of being a charming drunk. Luckily for him.

“It’s just,” shrugging the weight of one very large shoulder, “I don’t like people telling me what to do.”

“You and me both, mate,” answers Killian Jones, English Literature major and purveyor of fine-ass drugs. “Cut my own hand off before letting the masses have their way with me.”

They shouldn’t really be friends. It had been an odd thing. Different majors, interests, and friend groups. They didn’t live in the same building, they just happened to take the same literature class. That David had to take. He had to admit though, watching Killian take a drag off his cigarette, he was enjoying it.

“So, yeah,” David mumbles, finishing off his drink, staring off into the woods in an attempt to hide the blush in his cheeks, “I have yet to experience the touch of a woman.”

Killian snorts and grinds the cigarette into the dirt, pouring more of his cheap rum into David’s mug. “All well and good,” he offers genially, an air of well-informed freshman year advice wafting off his well-coiffed head. “But it’s not the only option, is it?”

They had met due to a seemingly contagious case of being too honorable for their own damn good. Getting into it with a group of frat dudes at some bar who could not for the life of them keep their fucking hands to themselves.

_“If you don’t want to lose that hand I’d suggest you watch it, **mate**.”_

_That had been the first time he’d heard that melodious Irish voice, scratchy from too many cigarettes. His eyes had been shot through with red, and he looked in dire need of a good nap. But he’d seen some poor girl, in the wrong place at the wrong time with her eyes too big and wide for her face, carrying a backpack large enough to tip her over and by golly he wasn’t about to let that stand._

_“Oh, yeah?” the towering mass of muscle and testosterone had sneered, shoving Killian in the shoulder. “What are you gonna do about it?”_

_The smirk he unleashed upon the bar before throwing the one-two punch really nailed it. Unfortunately there **had**  been 3 or 4 of them, and he was high out of his mind and  **did** need a nap and well, David has his own fair share of hero complexes._

He didn’t need him to elaborate on what the the “options” were. He felt pretty comfortable with identifying as bisexual, even though he hadn’t directly experienced either gender. They both received their fare share of his appreciation. And Killian had the added bonus of being an honest to God good person.

“You’d do that?” he asked nervously, trying not to fidget too much. Hoping against hope that he’d finally make it over this ridiculous milestone and move on with his life.

“It’s not like it’d be much of a hardship,” he responded with a laugh, trying to move past the pun and failing. “Seriously, Dave,” sobering up, looking kind and patient, “all you need do is ask.”

He gets out a few almost words before shaking it out and clearing his throat and trying to ignore the vague spinning sensation, says, “Yeah. Yes, that’d be… yes.”

While he'd been expecting something quick, maybe like ripping off a band-aid, what he received was far, far better. Well, in hindsight it was better. In the moment it was a bit terrifying.

It's his own fault, allowing himself to be kissed by the world's most intense college student. Kids his age got first-kissed all the time right? Weren't they all awkward and quick and you end up spitting on someone or biting something you're not supposed to? No. Not if it's Killian Jones and not if you're a world class idiot.

There's a wild amount of casual gazing—like he's trying to figure out the best way to go about it. And he doesn't swoop in or startle him with some harsh movement. It's all slow, careful touches. Eventually he places a hand against David's neck. The cool sensation of his rings is a pleasant contrast to how warm he suddenly feels, and there's a smell. Smokiness and booze, most obviously, but then there's this spicy, old world cologne underneath it all. Only he's a little too young to smell so old—probably pilfered from his brother's room.

"I'm giving this my best, Dave," he says softly, just a few inches away from his mouth, "least you could do is pay attention."

"I'm paying attention."

At least, he thinks that's what he says. It's possible it was in his head, or at an octave too low for any normal person to hear.

When he finally knows the feeling of another human's lips against his own, he manages to catch Killian's passion against his tongue. His brusqueness. The way he can argue Shakespeare into the wee hours of the morning. Rum and smoke and something fruity. Like dried apricots because all they eat these days is trail mix.

David sucks in a breath to make it last—to make sure he's remembering the moment, because as far as first kisses go, well. He's just thankful it wasn't Abigail.

"Thanks," he manages to utter after they've separated, foreheads resting heavily against each other.

"Feel any different?" Killian asks, smiling, with no trace of smugness to be found.

"I don't know," nudging Killian's nose with his own, listening to the chirping insects and late night traffic as he sits there, no longer the unkissed weird one.

"Maybe we should try again."


	12. 08.20.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In commemoration of the truly astounding display of public regard for CC thanks to Colin, who is legit an angel (dated 8/19/2017). Not to mention the fact that @mahstatins is a truly amazing mom who is truly v tired and could use some solid flirting. This is established relationship CC. I’m sick of getting them established. They are already together, ok? Modern AU time. TOPICAL modern AU time.[Oh, and btw, if u were wondering what their dog (who is named after Sally Ride, because space) looks like.](https://www.instagram.com/p/BX6K1yEndt6/?hl=en)_

For someone who can’t seem to shut up about constellations and space travel and whatever else not of this Earth, he’s unusually apathetic about the upcoming Event. Which, while scientists have known about it’s coming for quite sometime, it seems to have only  _just_  exploded onto the media scene, which means his Facebook is mostly flooded with scams for special glasses and not the latest political nightmare. Although there is that. Never free.

Thing is though, the man has a telescope and a star map and one of those little night lights that projects the constellations of your current geographical location on the ceiling. He’s got a mug, right? David has to remind all of their friends that he did not buy him this mug, he bought it himself, and it says “The rotation of the Earth really makes my day,” like it’s funny—and laughs about it  _every morning_.

So the not caring about the upcoming eclipse? It’s unusual. For him.

* * *

 “I’ve just been busy lately, love. Honestly,” giving him a peck on the cheek and going about his day, “I appreciate the concern.”

Which, yes, he  _has_  been busy. They both have, but they’ve also been dealing with some Liam-related drama (what’s new), and nothing rests heavier on Killian’s shoulders than the latest “Fucked Up Thing Liam’s Said on the Phone,” catastrophe. And usually, Killian shares the latest criticism or blunt (also known as, “rude”) opinion immediately. He’s older now, wiser—less sensitive about Liam’s litany of opinions about his career choices and food choices and how-you-arrange-the-living-room choices and whatever else he can think of. Liam’s a good guy. David is adamant; he’s a good guy that loves his little brother as if he were his own son. But Killian’s not his son, is he?

“I know how hard it was for you guys growing up,” David says for what feels like the millionth time, “but he’s gotta let go a bit, ya know?”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Killian answers for, again, what feels like the millionth time, “I don’t take any of it to heart.”

But he does take it to heart.  _Of course he does._  Killian Jones takes everything to heart and it’s one of the things he loves about him, but it’s also one of those things that makes him soft and vulnerable and sad, only he tries to keep it to himself and  _that’s_  when something like a solar eclipse is fucking  _nigh_  and he suddenly couldn’t care less.

Which is when he proposes the road trip.

* * *

 He moans about it at first, mentioning all the work that needs doing and the boat that needs cleaning and how is traveling with the dog supposed to go, and it’s one thing after another until David pulls him a bit roughly into a hug and reminds him (for the millionth time) that it’s all gonna be ok, and it’ll all be here when they get back and they’ve got lots of podcasts to catch up on.

“And I don’t know if you know this,” David whispers conspiratorially, “but the last time a solar eclipse was visible in the U.S., it was  _1918_.”

“I do know that, actually,” Killian sighs, surrendering to David’s plotting,  “Alright, then. I’ll run to the shop.”

It’s a bit last minute, and it’s a good 20 hour drive, and being prepared for such a trip  _with_  the dog (”Her name is Sally,” he had rather drunkenly decided the night before they took her home, “our intrepid lass.”) is a bit of a to-do, but whatever, David knows it’ll be worth it. A little stress now, a lot of pop music, coffee, and about a dozen hand-rolled cigarettes later. He figures he can let up on the no smoking rule for this.

_“But just this once, you hear me?”_

_“Bloody hell, Dave,_ _**yes**.”_

They’re packed up and ready to go in about a day, setting out at an ungodly hour a day or so before the eclipse is supposed to take place. They’ll be driving through a few states, but given the time crunch, they can’t make as many stops as they’d like. Maybe on the way back. They do have to make a decent amount of stops for Sally, including one in New York closer to the Finger Lakes. Luckily, or not so luckily, there are about a hundred incredible wineries along the way and they get a little stuck.

“This tastes like  _actual candy_ ,” Killian mumbles into his glass, he’d loudly protest only he can’t seem to stop drinking it.

“I don’t see it stopping you.”

It’s some kind of raspberry dessert wine, only it tastes nothing like wine and they’re imbibing the stuff like it’s water. This particular winery is a little bit in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by vibrant, lush meadows dotted with wildflowers; sloping, seemingly infinite hills in the distance.

“We could just stay here,” Killian suggests with his eyes closed, a hand resting on Sally’s head. “12 more hours in the car isn’t the  _most_  appealing.”

David grabs his hand, swiping his thumb back and forth over Killian’s knuckles. “Maybe,” he says, conceding the point, “but  _1918_.”

Eventually they sober up and move a little further on down the road.

* * *

 In Ohio they pull off to the side of a road and eat some raw corn on the cob (Sally too, of course). It’s juicier than expected, even without being cooked. It’s sweet without being saccharine, a refreshing and floral bite aided by the sight of corn fields and red pick-up trucks and frightening billboards about the Devil. They buy a bag for about 3 bucks and continue on, the strains of Fleetwood Mac and Paul Simon following after one another—windows rolled down, the air smelling vaguely of diesel and freshly turned dirt.

They hadn’t really told anyone before they fled, their only notice a picture of their clasped hands on Instagram, resting over the gearshift, “1918,” the caption reads simply, “brb.”

* * *

 They find a reasonably empty campground right outside of Hopkinsville, Kentucky. There’s a few families with strangely well-behaved children, a small group of women on some kind of vision quest, and a few students from a nearby university. Killian seems to deflate at the prospect of mostly silence.

They arrive the night before, setting up the tent and feeding Sally before collapsing on top of their sleeping bags, legs entwined. Killian usually wakes up first, listens to Sally’s snuffling, Dave’s soft breathing in his ear.

“You happy we’re here?” David asks quietly, observing the thoughtful expression on Killian’s face. Taking note of the crustiness at the corner of his eyes, the soft, still almost-asleep way he stares up at the sky through the mesh of the tent.

"Very much,” answering with a kiss, offering reassurance with a squeeze to the forearm wrapped around his stomach. “Rather this than being tortured with the regret.”

"Didn’t you know?” David snorts, “That’s why I did this. There’d be no living with you otherwise.”

“So a selfish endeavor then.”

“Obviously.”

* * *

 Around noon, the moon makes its way in front of the sun. By around 1:30 PM it achieves totality, and it’s twilight in the middle of the day—surreal but beautiful. A rooster crows in the distance, the nighttime insects begin to chirp as if they’ve been rudely awakened, and David can’t keep his eyes off Killian’s face.

A lot of the websites he’d visited had said there would just be too much going on to really focus—you’d have to decide what it is you choose to look at, only he hadn’t really anticipated that it’d be the person he’s looked at everyday of his life for the past 5 years. He looks almost inhuman in this near total darkness, his features taking on an edge, a clarity that he’s never been able to appreciate before now.

“Can you believe such a thing is possible?” Killian says softly, in awe, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“No,” he answers, smiling at the sight of Killian’s high, joyful cheeks, “not at all.”


	13. 09.01.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because I haven’t written anything in days, and I am quite stuck, and I just wanted to write **something** , so it’s CC which means it’ll get lots of secret hits (I see y’all), but at the very least I’ll have written something. Fair warning, this fic involves someone with a slight hearing disability and I am not deaf, so if I’ve gotten something wrong, please tell me! **Trigger warning for vague descriptions of violence, minor character death, and PTSD.** Happy CC Friday!_

The last thing he hears with any degree of acceptable functionality is that of a high-pitched ringing, accompanied very briefly by the nauseating  _crunch_  of his own bones. That eerie, high-pitched echo had vibrated within the walls of his head as if he were a tuning fork. In an odd, dissociative moment he saw himself drawn in the image of a Saturday morning cartoon. His own body boldly outlined in black, the normally drab color of his uniform practically alive with bright, living color. The sound itself was not dissimilar to the many times he had foolishly stood far too close to the shit speakers at a punk show in someone’s grimy basement. And Robin, ever the reliable man, had always gleefully reminded him that he would never experience the joy of hearing at that frequency ever again.

_“Who knows,” he’d say on a laugh, “maybe you’ll actually be able to sing on key now.”_

_Answering with a vulgar yell (because he couldn’t quite discern the volume of his own voice), “Get fucked, mate. Truly.”_

Through the hazy double-vision he’d seen Robin’s smile for the last time. Had followed the thin river of blood as it sluggishly ran from the corner of his temples all the way down to the upturned corners of his lips. Pooling in the dry cracks of his flesh, disrupting the fine layer of dust that had settled on his features ever since they’d arrived. And who would be able to drunkenly lecture him about neglecting his own well-being now?

Not that it mattered. It’s not like he’d be able to hear it.

* * *

He’s stateside for about a year before he meets David Nolan, and it’s one of the harder years of his life—and of those there have been  _many_. At 26, he’s lived through a far greater number of tragic circumstances than most men his age. Mother dead; father fled; brother with honorable intentions both resentful and overbearing. Liam’s still in England, working and living under the delusion that he’s not just as fucked up as Killian is. It’s for the best, they never did get along in close quarters.

Downside being, what with Robin gone and his own tendency toward the morose, he’d gotten a bit lonely. Which was where Sally came in. A lovely spotted lass with comically large, pointed ears, and dramatic, amber-colored eyes, she ended up being the perfect companion while lost in the throes of the dreaded “readjustment period.”

She also tugs rather rudely on her leash if he’s about to step in front of a bus. Good girl.

* * *

He doesn’t have total hearing loss, but he may as well have. He can’t quite tell if the almostness of the thing doesn’t actually make it far worse than just being completely without the ability to hear anything. Instead it’s more of this muffled, trapped in a washing machine kind of sound. And he’s not crazy about the hearing aid, so he often stubbornly goes without it.

He doesn’t know it yet, but it’s going to be one of those things Dave is incessantly bugging him about. It’s not as if he doesn’t know the man is right—he is, after all, annoyingly intelligent, but honestly the thing is just un-bloody-comfortable.

“Ya know what’s fun though?” he will inevitably always ask, “being able to hear the undeniably charming tenor of my voice.”

It is difficult at first, for Killian. Admitting that somehow, with the solid, warm weight of him against his back; that it’s the  _feeling_  of his voice, the thrumming of it traveling underneath his skin, that’s somehow better than the real thing.

* * *

They meet because of Sally, princess that she is. They meet because Killian, responsible for the death of his friend (no matter what Hopper says) and almost his dog, fails to see the bike barreling down the sidewalk and Sally, per her job description, leaps in front of it. A terrible beast, really.

He’s about halfway through a panic attack when he finally makes eye contact with the shockingly handsome man who’s come to his aid. Kneeling next to Sally, his lips moving but all Killian can hear is a hushed “wah, wah, wah,” kind of noise beneath the painful rushing of his own heart. But Sally’s not moving, just gazing at him with a kind of blank look on her face, and all he can do is feel some lost, long ago granules of sand trapped in the corners of his eyes—smell the iron in the air.

David has to yell, a deep “Hey!” that Killian only manages to catch the “—ey!” of. And that’s when he remembers that he’s not wearing his hearing aid and how’s this man supposed to know how fucking useless he is, and for God’s sake, will someone please  _save his dog_?

“Sorry,” Killian manages to sputter between short, tight breaths. “I can’t,” he points to his ear, tries to swallow the thick mucus gathering at the back of his throat, “I can’t hear so well.”

The man’s hand is resting on his shoulder, so he can feel his voice, sort of. When his lips move he tries to re-focus his attention, and he’s trying to explain that he’s an animal doctor of some kind, that she’ll be fine, they just have to get her to his offices down the street. His lips are pink and distracting, and when Killian runs a relieved hand down his heated, sweaty face, he tries to ignore the heady scent of the man’s aftershave.

* * *

It’s all a bit of whirlwind after that, and he has to have a long, meandering discussion with Dr. Hopper about not moving too fast after a trauma. But honestly, his whole bloody life could be defined as a trauma, and it’s not moving too fast when you haven’t been happy in 26 years. Still, he has to be sure that he’s not about to be a burden on Dave’s otherwise uncomplicated existence.

“How could you say that?” he’d half spoken, half signed. His honorable, kind heart paired with that large, insatiable brain had resulted in his signage ability being almost better than Killian’s in a few short months, and Killian couldn’t help but feel as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop. “To be expected,” Dr. Hopper had confirmed, “that would be the anxiety.” The shoe full of resentment and exhaustion, and not bloody worth it. What with the irreparably damaged cochlea and inconvenient panic attacks and not being able to ride around in a car without taking anti-anxiety medication—who in their right mind would  _stay_?

“You’re not a burden,” David insisted, his eyes locked onto Killian’s, “You’d  _never_  be a burden.”

“How can you know that?” he answered, softer this time, adjusting to the silent quality of his own voice, his fingers clumsily forming the question.

“I just do,” he said slowly before pulling him into his arms. Killian couldn’t see his lips, or read the graceful movements of his hands, but he could feel it, the familiar vibrations of his voice. And he couldn’t know for certain, but it was brief, and rushed, and later that night he’d wonder if it was an, “I love you.”

* * *

It’s not easy. It’s never  _easy_. Another year goes by and he still struggles with sleeping through the night, but at least there’s less nights like those. And when he does wake up, his heart racing, the silence somehow deafening, David is always there. The tangibility of him, the movement and presence and weight acting in perfect tandem against the absence of his voice.

When he occasionally succumbs to the nagging and uses the aid he can hear it with a bit more clarity, and while it is too soft to know for certain, it does have a fantastical prince-like quality, like someone asking for hankies as favors and riding up on a steed, which, “I guess you kind of did. That first time.”

But it’s nice to know he doesn’t especially  _need_  to hear it, to feel at ease with him. To feel as if he’s missing something when they’re together. And there are certain, unexpected blessings to the thing—to the lacking.

He’s attuned to the feel of him, without the noise to distract him, it’s the most tactile love he’s ever known. To  _feel_  his moan instead of hearing it, that’s an exceptional thing to know. To be cocooned in the warmth of him; the sweet, spicy smell without the distractions of the TV or traffic or whatever else pulls one’s attention in any given moment. And he’s lucky, isn’t he? He’s here when others,  _Robin_ , aren’t able to be, and maybe it’s infuriating at times, and maybe the world is a bit darker than it was before, but he might’ve not met him otherwise.

His fingers cast a flirtatious, “My knight in shining armor,” a flush rising in his cheeks, Sally’s nose bumping playfully against his knee. David’s head of golden hair falls back in silent laughter, and the world manages to brighten in the familiar quiet.


	14. 09.27.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The CS Writer’s Hub has spoken. Killian Jones vs. the very surprising text message. If I say anything else it’ll give away the surprise. I don’t wanna give away the surprise._

The problem with not planning things from the get-go is that inevitably, everything following that initial act of ill-advised spontaneity will also go horribly wrong.

“Not off to a great start, seems like.”

“Yeah, no, not really, Lily. Thanks for the help.”

Rekindling her friendship with Lily had not been an easy thing, and she’d been dissuaded from trying to do so by nearly every person in her life. Her parents were a bit biased by way of their own guilt, so she didn’t really pay attention to them or their concerns on the matter. And even Regina, who should by all accounts be the Queen of Second Chances, couldn’t seem to resist making snide little comments about “that girl’s attitude.”

“Seems to me as if she’s lived a harsh life,” Killian had observed when she’d asked for his opinion. “I’m not one to judge, aye?”

He had this way of doling out advice or perspective as if he wasn’t really allowed to have either because he’d done so many fucking things wrong in his life. It was both sad and charming all at once—all that wealth of experience gained by living longer than most of them, only he can’t seem to stop punishing himself long enough to appreciate it.

“I think that too,” she answered, smiling and planting a gentle kiss against his cheek. “Thanks.”

“Not sure what I did, love.”

“Yeah,” rushing to grab her jacket off the back of the couch, one foot already out the door. “That’s the point. Be back later—love you!”

* * *

 Anyway, she’s kind of regretting the whole “friendship” thing at the moment, and she could smack Killian silly for giving her such terrible advice.

“Listen, what’s done is done. I don’t know what I could say to make you feel even the slightest bit better about this.”

“I am  _such_  an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Lily said stiffly, a long string of noodles hanging rather indelicately out of her mouth, “understatement.”

“The smell in here is making me nauseous.”

Which she’d definitely have to get used to. With Henry, most smells had made her nauseous. Granted, she’d been in prison at the time and it didn’t really smell great most of the time, but still. Seemed to be two-for-two currently. Maybe she’s just one of those people—everything makes her want to vomit. Lucky her.

The point is, if she hadn’t rekindled her friendship with Lily, she wouldn’t have added her number to her phone and Lily’s name wouldn’t have shown up right under Killian’s name in her Contacts. It’s a rookie fucking mistake, and her younger self would have been disappointed in her carelessness.

“Maybe—” Emma starts, licking her lips, trying to avoid breathing through her nose, “maybe he won’t even know what it means.”

“You’re the one who goes on and on and  _on_  about how quick the guy is.”

“Yeah, well. First time for everything.”

* * *

As it happens, Emma Swan’s luck is actually as bad as she thinks it is, because he just happens to be spending the day with her father when it happens.  _Idiot._

“Dave?” Killian asks, pausing in his slow, careful brushes alongside the horse’s flank.

“Yeah?”

“Emma’s sent me a message, and I’m not quite sure what it’s supposed to mean.”

David chuckles to himself and grins. It’s always a bit satisfying when he has to explain something to his son-in-law. His son-in-law who is a ridiculous number of years older; who is inexplicably adored by his son, and his daughter, and sometimes even his  _wife_ , and at least he can take pleasure in explaining texting lingo that most twelve year olds understand.

“Let’s see it,” he says playfully, taking full advantage of Killian’s bruised ego as he drops it into his hand. He looks down, expecting to see an “istg,” or a “lmfao,” or an Emoji or whatever else Emma’s sent, only it’s a picture and it seems to have been sent by accident and—

“Oh.”

“‘Oh?’ ‘Oh,’ what, mate?”

“Uh, I think,” he pauses and grunts, quickly shoving the phone back into Killian’s waiting hand. “I think you should talk to Emma.”

“Dave, do I need to be worried?”

“No, no,” David says quickly, laughing uncomfortably.  “Just... go home, okay? Talk to your wife.”

* * *

Emma’s been staring at her cold, congealing bowl of noodles for about 25 minutes when Lily’s had enough, tapping her chopsticks along the rim of Emma’s dish.

“Hey there. Swan. You with me?”

How could she fumble such an unbelievably important moment? Nothing in either of their lives has ever been simple and easy. She had hoped that if or when this were to ever happen, it would’ve at least happened in a somewhat normal way. Could have broken it to the guy gently, with candles and flowers and maybe they both would’ve had a good cry afterwards.

Emma groans and drops her head to the table, caring not a wit that some of her hair’s fallen into her cold soup.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?” she asks, her voice muffled thanks to the proximity of the table to her face. “How could you possibly know what I’m thinking right now?”

Lily sighs. “You’re thinking about how you’ve never had a chance to do anything the ‘right way,’” her voice droning on as if she’s said all this before, “how you’ve finally made it to the perfect life and even now, you’ve fucked it up.”

Emma sniffles and lifts her head, tries to ignore the pressure behind her eyes.

“Your life’s never gonna be perfect, Em.”

“I know that.”

“And don’t tell him I said this, but I think you’ve got a really good guy. And he’s not gonna care  _how_  he knows, only that he  _does_.”

They sit quietly for a few moments; Emma vaguely hears Lily ask for the check while she tries to keep herself from weeping in public where any nosy Storybrooke resident can see and then run off and tell her mom. Her phone buzzes and it’s David, a very brief, “Hook’s on his way home.”

“I need to go,” she says, standing. “Thanks... for lunch. And everything.”

“Calm down, don’t get hysterical,” Lily says with a smirk on her face, her own eyes suspiciously shiny. “And congratulations.”

* * *

He’s wearing a hole in the floor when she gets home, his face adorably scrunched up as he stares down at his phone. She hadn’t responded to the question mark, feels a bit bad for making him wait longer than he had to.

“Hey,” she says on a sigh and a smile, her stomach settling with the comfort of being home. It’s quiet this weekend, especially with Henry at Regina’s (thank goodness for small miracles). There’s a large grandfather clock ticking down the hall, and the floors creak under both of their feet. She’s never been so grateful to be able to come home.

He sounds relieved when he breathes out a, “Swan,” rushing to her side and looking her up and down as if expecting to see a gaping wound somewhere.

“Are you alright, love? Seems you’ve inherited your father’s infuriating vagueness.”

“Everything’s fine,” she grabs his hook and pulls him towards the couch, “come sit.”

She’d thought about it on the way over, how she might go about explaining that their small family is about to get a little bit bigger. About how they’ll both have to confront their various childhood traumas if they don’t want to fuck up their kid. How they’ll finally have to paint that room upstairs. How she can’t split a bottle of rum with him for a few months. He’s not gonna like that. There’s so much she  _could_  say, but now, in the moment, all she really wants is for him to be in the  _know_  with her.

“The text was a pregnancy test.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The picture I sent you? It was a picture of a positive pregnancy test.”

For a moment the sound of the grandfather clock ticking at the back of the house sounds unbelievably loud. Her fingers tighten around the metal of his hook, as if there’s still a part of her worried about having to keep him there. With her.

“I sent it to Lily by mistake,” she explains, starting to ramble. “Her freaking name is right beneath yours and I got... nervous, I guess? And I needed to talk to somebody and I sent it to you by accident.”

“Emma—“

“I never wanted you to find out like  _that_ ,” continuing as if he hadn’t spoken, “I’m  _so_ sorry, Killian. I love you so much, I’m just... scared, and I didn’t mean—“

“ _Emma_ ,” he says again, interrupting with a hand against her cheek. “I don’t bloody care about that.” His eyes start to shine and crinkle with the shape and warmth of his grin, “You’re...” he nods towards her flat middle, a hint of hysteria in his voice.

“Yes,” she nods, relieved at the sigh of his smile. “Yeah, some poor, unfortunate baby is gonna have to deal with the both of us.”

He lets out a loud, booming note of laughter, as if all the tension he’d been carrying since she walked in had been released into the air. “I love you,” he whispers, resting his forehead against her own, both their cheeks wet with tears, “so very much.”

“Yeah,” she answers with a soft giggle, “me too.”


	15. 10.11.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you’re listening to the OUAT podcast that @the-reason-to-sail-home and I produce on a bi-weekly basis, then you might’ve heard that she’s a tad bit obsessed with a certain S7 headcanon that we’ll most likely never get to see, but which I promised to give her. This is me fulfilling that promise. If you don’t like it, it’s not my problem, since it’s Tessa’s weird fantasy and not mine. I’m jk, it’s so fluffy all ur teeth will fall out. btw, if you’re not listening to [@podeverafter](https://podeverafter.tumblr.com), you effing should be, ok?

Emma Swan’s always hated Sunday nights, mostly because they are often followed by Monday mornings. It has been suggested that she take advantage of the unique kind of quiet inherent to a Sunday night—the feeling that the entire working world is just as content as you, bellies full with a good meal, relaxed on the couch with a book or a TV remote. That was an easy thing to say, if you weren’t an orphan or struggling to make your rent. Even after she started making decent money catching incredibly stupid, irresponsible criminals, she still couldn’t quite get the hang of the kind of Sunday rhythm she’d always heard about.

It was just the whole Monday morning thing, ya know? It didn’t matter how pleasant her Sunday, how idyllic the evening went—it was still Monday the next morning, and it always came too early.

If she could go back in time and talk to a post-Neal, post-prison version of herself, a young woman who had recently lost the man she thought she had loved; a child who would never get the chance to love her back in the same way she did and always would adore him, she would tell her that the misery of a Monday morning? The grating buzz of an alarm in her ear; the fact that the space behind you is colder than you’d like; the depressing thought of an empty fridge? Yeah, all of that and more—one day it would just be another sad thing of a very distant past.

* * *

Their alarm goes off at 8:15 AM every Monday morning, but it doesn’t really need to, because Killian wakes up at 7 everyday, if not earlier, and reads beside her until it’s time for her to wake up. In fact, she almost never even hears the beeping, since he turns it off first and wakes her up with a kiss to the cheek instead. And this is the kicker, the thing that would make her past-self straight up laugh in her face—there’s usually a cup of coffee sitting on her nightstand, the steam reaching towards the ceiling with an enticing wave.

It had been a bit of a shock at first. Not because it wasn’t nice; it was one of the nicer ways she’d ever been woken up in her life, but because it seemed just a little bit too good to be true. The “good things” never seemed to stick around too long when it came to Emma Swan. In her experience, if things were ever “good,” it meant that things were undoubtedly about to take a turn for the worse. While she could’ve just as easily  _talked_  to her  _husband_  about the uneasiness of the whole thing, she retreated to her fallback position instead. Had given him a bit of a cold shoulder until she came to her senses and realized this was a problem most easily solved with a few choice words instead of a quiet grudge match he had no way of knowing he was a part of.

_“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” she had reassured him hurriedly, hands twisting nervously in her lap, “it’s just a bit too...”_

_His eyebrow rose in a kind of, “continue,” gesture, and she tried to ignore the complete lack of surprise in his eyes. Like all of this, all of her craziness, he didn’t really need to go much out of his way to deal with it. In fact, it was a bit of a stretch to even say that he was “dealing,” with anything. He just sat there and listened, patiently, like he actually **wanted**  to._

_“...Nice?”  
_

_It had sounded absurd as soon as the word left her mouth, and she closed her eyes briefly in mortification. “I just mean,” trying to smile her way through the awkwardness, “I’m not used to it. That’s all. It’s strange to think I can have this kind of thing now.”_

_“I know, love,” he answered on a sigh, lightly pinching her chin. “And I’ll stop if you’d like, but I just need you to know that you deserve it, Swan.”  
_

_She kind of hated the way she **still**  couldn’t help herself from blushing when he said shit like that, had to turn away from the love in his eyes, the tenor of his voice._

_“You deserve all that and more.”  
_

It didn’t take her nearly as long as she thought it would. It was almost like the sharing her feelings thing actually, um, helped? Who would’ve thought. Anyway, a few months later and she’s not quite sure how she’d ever gone on so long without it. The feeling of him beside her, the knowledge that even though she’s asleep, blissfully unaware of the sun peaking over the horizon, he’s there beside her, awake and ready.

She never thought she’d be one of those people who enjoyed the domestic routine they’d fallen into. This well-orchestrated dance of kisses and coffee and sharing the same sink at 9 AM before work. Spitting into the same sink even—a distinctly not-romantic move, but somehow it worked; all those winks and nudges in the mirror, his hip bumping lightly against her own.

If they ever ran late, which did happen occasionally, as she had been blessed (or cursed, as the case may be) with an arguably handsome husband, and she  _was_  only human, the usual choreography of their Monday morning went into double-time, a swift and less graceful exit from their home by 10:30 AM. During their quicker mornings there wasn’t always coffee on the nightstand, and every once in a while she happened to skip brushing her teeth, but there  _was_  always an inappropriately timed kiss, as if there was no time for basic hygiene, but a kiss, yes,  _absolutely_.

The way he’d gently pull her against him with her jacket halfway over her shoulders, his gaze warm and his grin infectious. “We really don’t have time for this ya know,” she’d remind him with a stupid smile on her face, only vaguely concerned with the unfortunate fact of her morning breath.

“We’ll  _always_  have time for this,” he would say breathily, staring down at her lips like they weren’t chapped and dry from sleep. When he’d say shit like that her life would flash before her eyes; like some sad documentary about some other girl’s life who wound up poor and alone somewhere, her entire life come and gone with no one to care for and no one to care for her. And then he’d be there, his own breath just as unpleasant, his lips pressed firmly against hers and she would suddenly remember that her life  _didn’t_  end that way, but that it was still happening. Every morning.


	16. 11.27.2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _CC about to boldly go where it has never gone before. For[@phiralovesloki](http://phiralovesloki.tumblr.com/). And yes, I shamelessly stole a few things from Stranger Things, don’t make a big deal about it. I also know v little about the adoption process, and this is supposed to be a quick thing, so I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies. I know it can be a harrowing process and I applaud those people who make this kind of decision. xo_

Jane looks around a room like no other person he’s ever known. Her eyes move from wall, to floor, to furniture, to human being at a slow, considerate pace. It’s a bit unsettling how calm and observant she is for so young a child; at 4 years old, Jane is an abnormally silent toddler. Even after they had met with her a few times, to test the waters—she was no longer scared of them by any means, but it was still a bit like pulling teeth trying to get a few words out of her.

“Don’t rush her,” Killian had urged David gently, “she’ll talk when she’s ready.”

Having been a lost boy once himself, wary of other people even from a young age, when the sight of a smile from a stranger can feel as if you’ve met your newest, closest friend, only to discover your worst enemy.

They had been married for about a year when David had brought it up. Carefully, nervously, he had slipped the suggestion in between the words of a totally innocuous conversation about going on a vacation that summer.

“Yeah, but wouldn’t it be great if we looked into adopting?”

He can’t remember the words exactly, but the look on Killian’s face had been so incredibly surprised he imagines that they might’ve sounded something like that. Even Sally had ceased her incessant gnawing on the large bone they had recently bought for her; ears perked up and tail suddenly still against the kitchen floor.

Killian didn’t have the most pleasant experience with the foster system, so he gets it. He can appreciate the childhood trauma, the feelings of abandonment, the worry that he’d be incapable of loving a child as much as that child might deserve—but he loves David just about as much as any human being is capable of loving another human being, so he has a hard time imagining that fatherhood is something he would be bad at.

“Um,” Killian began finally, his tongue slipping out to swipe nervously at his lips. “I take it this is something you’ve been thinking on, then?”

“Yeah,” he answered quickly, “Yes. It’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

If by “thinking about,” you mean having vivid fantasies of a little girl running around in the yard with Sally; family trips to the Christmas tree farm a few miles down the road; dinners on Sunday with all of their friends, small fingers and toes tugging at their duvet on Saturday mornings, whispers about pancakes under their breath. Yeah, he’s “thought” about it.

Killian studies him as if he is fully aware of Dave’s tendency to spiral into unrealistic imaginings and then brush it off like it’s not important to him, like he has to be sure the other party is on board before committing to the fantasy, even though he definitely committed a few months earlier and couldn’t admit it to himself.

“I’ll think about it, alright?” a vaguely uncomfortable smile on his face, “I promise.” Kissing him on the forehead and stepping out onto the porch, Sally at his heels.

* * *

Killian is still on the fence about it until they meet Jane for the first time. She’s this small, wide-eyed thing, and she wraps a curious, gentle finger around Killian’s prosthetic like it’s nothing. Which is when his eyes get suspiciously wet, and he can feel Killian tensing up beside him like he’s trying to keep the tears and the shaky breaths from escaping.

“Jane,” says Belle, their social worker, politely, a benign smile plastered on her face, “This is Killian and David, they might be your new family. Would you like that?”

Jane doesn’t commit to any particular emotion right away, offers up a quiet sniffle instead, blinks a few times. There’s a hint of a smile on her face though, so the social worker takes that as a good sign.

“She’s incredibly shy around new people,” Belle had told them initially, warning them that a few possible candidates had met Jane already, none of them working out thus far. “I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

Belle makes an appointment for them to meet with her again the following week, and David catches Killian looking at paint colors on their laptop that night, because “the office had been looking a bit dreary.”

* * *

Jane had a hard time as a baby, born to a mother who couldn’t care for her, shunted from one government building to one agency, to one foster family after another. Belle revealed that they didn’t know much about the father, only that he was in prison and there was a likely history of physical and emotional abuse.

“I just want you to understand,” she had said for the fourth or fifth time, around the time when they were about to start filling out the paperwork, “adoption is already a challenge. Taking in a child with a traumatic history will be especially difficult.”

“We heard you the first time,” Killian had snapped defensively. David squeezed his forearm gently,  _easy does it_. Knowing that it was nothing against Belle per say, only that he heard her words in the voice of other people; his brother’s voice, his own caseworker, “a troubled child.” In other words, not worth rescuing. Not worth the effort.

“We understand,” David had reassured Belle softly, a silent apology for Killian’s outburst, “we just want to give her the life that she deserves.”

Belle had smiled in understanding, giving them an affirmative nod. “I’m so glad you’ve found each other.”

* * *

When they finally get to take her home, all of Killian’s nervousness seems to have faded away. Surprisingly, David is the one questioning his every thought, trying on at least several different sweaters before leaving the house that morning.

“You look very handsome, darling,” Killian had said, his eyes focused on their street as he pulled out of their driveway, “She’s going to love it.”

Very unsurprisingly, she cared very little for the sweater, but adored Sally as soon as she saw her waiting in the backseat of their car. “Jane,” Killian had said, extending an introductory hand between them, “this is Sally. Sally, this is Jane.”

Sally had sniffed, wagged her tail, and licked Jane on the hand. Jane, for her part, had unleashed the biggest smile that either of them had seen so far.

“Fast friends, I think,” Killian had laughed joyfully, his eyes practically sparkling with excitement. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

* * *

It wasn’t easy to be sure, and neither Killian nor David had been laboring under the assumption that it would be. Lots of tears for no discernible reason, a certain degree of stubbornness that was a bit unusual for a child her age, and there was still the matter of getting her to speak more. David would be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit jealous, she seemed to talk to Killian more than she’d talk to him, not that she didn’t like him—she almost always adored going on long hikes through their property—she just seemed to share a connection with Killian that David couldn’t understand.

“Try not to take it personally, Dave. She adores you.”

He’d felt similarly useless after Killian had finally shared his own sordid childhood, feeling like he could never take it back, couldn’t turn back the clock and give him the love and care he had so cruelly been denied. But at the end of the day, he was, at the very least, grateful that she’d been talking  _at all_ , especially to someone that she would, hopefully someday soon, come to think of as her father.

“What do you even talk about?”

“She likes to listen to stories, mostly,” Killian had revealed, quietly in bed one night. “She asks a lot of questions about my hand.”

* * *

It takes time, but after a year or so she becomes more talkative, less closed off, as if she were waiting for the inevitable to occur and she’d be put back into the system. For their own part, they can no longer imagine their lives without her.

“Can we get waffles, please?” She asked politely from her seat in their shopping cart, her small hands tugging on the strings of her hoodie. “I would like waffles.”

“I can make you waffles, honey,” David had said, trying to ignore the pleading look on her face. “They’re better for you.”

“But I like  _these_  ones,” she insisted, pointing at the box of frozen treats, her lower lip sticking out just a little bit too far.

“Those are the ones she likes, love, I know it pains you to hear it.”

“Traitor,” David had mumbled under his breath, tossing the box into the cart.

* * *

Their home is filled with just as much laughter as he’d wanted, so much that he almost never notices that sad, faraway look in Killian’s eyes anymore, if ever. There are crayons scattered all over their countertops, and her drawings litter nearly every flat surface. Sally had, as expected, taken quite well to her new role as surrogate mother, following Jane absolutely everywhere, even sleeping at the end of her bed at night, though she had never been allowed on the furniture to begin with.

About a year and a half on, watching Jane and Sally from the porch, he asks Killian whether or not he’s happy with the decision—knowing the answer, but wanting to hear the words from his lips anyway.

“I don’t know why I ever doubted you,” he said softly, his voice heavy with emotion, “you’ve never steered me wrong before.” Bringing David’s hand to his lips, placing a kiss to the backs of his fingers as if they were courting lovers in those period dramas he loved so much.

Jane cackles loudly and they can see the top of her head hidden between some tall grass, Sally’s tongue making quick work of her cheeks and closed eyes, and David sighs at the thought of the tick check they’ll have to do later.

“Daddy!” she yells playfully, her hands reaching towards the sky, “come look!”


	17. 01.05.2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Did y’all know that Josh Dallas posted a picture of his nice beard on Instagram? And did u **also** know that he makes Hook-themed crafts? And he **is** “the ship?” Captain Charming is flawless. Here’s a winter snippet about beards and warm drinks._

The coldest year on record demands a change to the usual facial hair situation. Killian has known David for many years, but in all that time, he has yet to see the man grow a full beard. Hell, he’s barely seen the shadow of one—even after a long night of drinking, when no one in their right mind would expect to see a clean shaven face at breakfast the next day. There he was, looking spick and span as ever. They had always given him shit for it, of course. And generally the shit is given because the lot of them are downright ashamed of their own drunken behavior and the fact that they are grown men with jobs and spouses and whatever else, and if you’re not going to get it together now, then when the hell might we expect an end to the bloody  _carousing_?

“I don’t know why you find this so surprising,” David had mentioned to Killian in an aside one morning in their early college years. “You told me that Liam would smack you upside the head if you didn’t make the bed every morning.”

It was a fair accusation, but it was also a large reason why he gave up the goat for so many years. Finally free of being watched every second of everyday, trying and failing to live up to his brother’s expectations. So screw it, you don’t  _have_  to shave your face everyday. Or brush your teeth every evening before bed, or wash every dish as soon as you’ve used it.

“I’m starting to think you just can’t grow one,” Killian had answered playfully, his tone suspiciously defensive, “which is fine, mate. We can’t be quite so good in  _all_  things.”

Dave had narrowed his eyes and changed the subject, sensing he had obviously stumbled upon a sore point and it wasn’t worth getting into further, but still, it would be years before he proved everyone’s absurd and vaguely insulting facial hair theories incorrect.

While David had in fact stumbled upon a sore point, he was wrong about the nature of the soreness. It wasn’t so much the fact that it reminded Killian of his inability to please his brother, but more so the fact that Killian had managed to develop something of a crush on his friend. A friend who he always assumed had been as straight as all their other friends, and who, to the best of Killian’s knowledge had never even shared a kiss with another man.

As far as his own “business” was concerned, as it were, everyone was well aware of his mutual admiration for either sex, which is probably what had given Dave the courage to go on ahead and plant a sloppy, drunken kiss on Killian’s cheek on the eve of their college graduation. It could have been mistaken for the usual camaraderie, only the feverish blushing and adorable stammering after the fact kind of gave the whole thing away.

“Not  _quite_ so straight, then?” Killian asked happily, an almost violent smirk on his face, his dimples deepening and eyes sparkling. “Or is this a ‘now or never,’ sort of moment? A ‘one time thing?’“

“I think it might be a... a  _you_  thing?”

“And does the question imply that you do not know?”

They were sequestered away somewhere in the back of the house, away from the noise of the party. Killian could hear their muffled voices, the quiet thumping of some grotesque pop music he could never remember the name of. He would be heartbroken at the look of hesitation and hurt on David’s face, only that’s the problem with harboring a crush, isn’t it? You have to be sure. Otherwise it’s all  _literal_  chest pain, like your heart is  _aching_ , and you’re never hungry for food, and getting out of bed each day feels like a chore, and he’d rather avoid the inevitable moping that will undoubtedly leave yet another darkish stain on his large,  _bleeding_  heart.

“Killian,” he says, hesitating and soft, his eyes widening a fraction in realization, “ _I know_.”

There’s loud, victorious shouting from somewhere in the house, and Killian imagines that his life has suddenly become something like that of a live television sitcom, with the studio audience yipping and yawing as the two leads  _finally_  make their feelings known.

“Well,” he says with a smile against Dave’s lips, not a hint of stubble to be found, “that  _is_  a relief.”

* * *

The beard makes an appearance almost 5 years later, and as it turns out, it’s quite a long while to make Killian wait. Because it is a thing of beauty. The only reason he ends up so taken aback is because Dave leaves for a conference without a beard, and when he returns, the lower half of his face is all fuzzy and rugged. It’s not the fact that Dave is handsome that’s shocking, the man’s always been far too handsome by half, but it’s just, well, it’s exciting to know you’ll never stop learning about a person. Particularly a person you’ve come to know so well, a person you plan on getting to know over and over again until time ceases it’s endless passing.

“You are a  _gorgeous_  man,” Killian observes as soon as he’s walked in the door, suitcase in hand, knitted scarf wrapped to his chin. He cups his cold, bearded face with both hands in order to give a gentle kiss, savoring the unfamiliar feeling of the soft hair tickling his own lips. Sally barks and skids atop the wooden floors beneath their feet, her tail thumping both sets of their legs excitedly.

“Told you I could grow one,” he says laughingly, “I just wasn’t sure if you could handle it.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

* * *

One of his cuter moments, and there are  _many_ , is in the midst of the ridiculous holiday drink boondoggle that Killian can’t seem to escape. It’s bloody everywhere—on every single social media platform, every coffee shop and bar, and on the lips of almost everyone he knows, all of them talking on and on and on about which one they prefer. 

“Must we complicate such a no nonsense beverage?” Killian asks desperately, watching David carefully consider the beverage menu dotted with snowflakes and wrapped gifts.

“No one’s stopping you from your black, bitter garbage coffee.”

“I’ll have you know that  _good_  coffee shouldn’t require all of the extraneous... baubles.”

“Whipped cream is not a ‘bauble,’ Killian,” admonishing his grumpiness while failing to hide the smile on his face, “it’s fun and delicious.”

Given Dave’s history of being fairly no nonsense, it’s always been both surprising and charming that he had such an affinity for the holiday drink buzz. Most of the time he drank his tea and coffee black, just as Killian always has, but around the holidays it didn’t seem as if he could get enough of it all.

When he took a sip of his large Peppermint Mocha with an absurdly large dollop of whipped cream and red, snowflake-shaped sprinkles on top, some of it got caught in the hairs of his new, inarguably successful beard.

“I hope you know that’s having a negative effect on your perceived manliness.”

When he shrugs and places a quick kiss to his lips, Killian can taste the sweetness of the cream, a vague hint of mint and chocolate. He is unexpectedly comforted by the idea of Christmas being a few days away. Thinks of their lit up tree and roaring fireplace. Considers the holiday music playing overhead and finds it to be soothing as opposed to maddening. 

“Who do you think I’m trying to impress?” He asks with a twinkle in his eye, fully aware of Killian’s overcompensatory grumpiness. “Come on, admit it, doesn’t it taste just a little bit good?”

“I guess I can see the allure,” he admits slowly, “so long as the right person is wearing it.”


	18. 03.19.2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“My roommate just told me to stop growing my beard because if I get anymore handsome, he’s gonna have to fuck me, but what he doesn’t know is that I want that.” Captain Charming “omg they were **roommates** ” AU. ([x](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/moepoke/129001291635))_

There’s an old adage about assumptions that Killian Jones finds physically  _repulsive._  It is so unerringly awful, in fact, that he won’t even deign to repeat the thing in his own head. You know what it is, it’s not as if he needs to speak the actual words. And regardless of the fact that there’s this old, tired saying about assumptions, people still do it, and he’s done it, and ya know what? It kind of worked out in his favor, so,  _take that_.

He assumed, and look where it got him—pleasantly naked, squeezed into an old twin bed with an equally bare David Nolan. So, ya know, as far as Killian Jones is concerned? Assume away.

When Killian had first met David a year or so earlier, he thought that he looked like the kind of guy who could’ve been the main character in a running children’s book series. The little boy with the big heart who lives on a farm with his dog and learns a bunch of life lessons about responsibility and other useless blather. The kind of books Killian Jones never picked up as a kid. Killian Jones read Stephen King far too young and made a considerably large number of poor life choices, so, clearly, he never read the hypothetical book series in which a small, well-groomed David Nolan hypothetically appeared.   

They become roommates entirely by chance. Killian posts an ad on the school message boards looking for someone to help pay the rent and David answers.

 _From: dnolan@cornell.edu_  
_To: kjones@cornell.edu_  
_Subject: Apartment on Bryant Ave._

_Hey Killian,_

_Wondering if the second bedroom is still available in your apartment? I’m a second year student at the veterinary school, looking to escape my current living situation. Kinda got saddled with a bad roommate last year. I’m employed part-time with one of the vet offices in town, so I can make the rent no problem. Let me know._

_\- Dave N._

Seeing as how it was one of the only e-mails with a proper greeting, full sentences, and actual words, he responded almost immediately, telling him that he could stop by at any point the coming weekend.

He showed up in full athletic wear, with an enticing sheen of sweat still glistening on his forehead. He was also sporting a smile that belonged on the cover of an L.L. Bean catalog—and Killian had a sneaking suspicion he’d seen that exact face on the school’s promotional materials. And to be fair, had he seen David Nolan’s face on the cover of the graduate program catalog, he would’ve hustled across the ocean a hell of a lot faster.

“Killian?” he asked happily, if slightly out of breath, one large hand already extended, “David Nolan.”

“Dave,” he answered on a somewhat wistful sigh, “nice to meet you.”

They shook hands briefly before Killian ushered him inside, after which a rather typical conversation followed. A polite inquiry regarding each other’s classes; that one party the police had broken up; the criminally high cost of rent in the city. David had apologized for his appearance at one point, revealing that he was on the football team,  _naturally_ , and had only just left practice. It was rather stupid, but given his undeniably poor track record when it came to his previous paramours, he couldn’t help but  _assume_  the heterosexuality. It was just too good to be true, otherwise. Mr. Graduate Program Catalog, who smelled  _fantastic_ , by the way, who writes in full sentences and happens to be a decent cook,  _that guy_  is interested in men? Absolutely not. Life is not that kind.

Regardless, David seems polite, and friendly, and Killian still needs the roommate. He’ll get over it.

* * *

He doesn’t get over it. And to make matters worse, David ends up being a genuinely nice guy. And they get along. And they become  _friends_. Sure, he’s handsome and he smells nice, and Killian often daydreams about what his skin might taste like, but he’s also smart, dangerously selfless, and funny in the same way the father on a sitcom is funny. He watches football with Killian,  _real_  football, and learns all the rules—he starts playing  _Skyrim_  and tolerates Killian’s obsession with depressing American folk music from the 70s. He proofreads Killian’s papers when he can’t make it to his adviser’s office hours, and he’s not bullshitting in the least when he calls Killian’s thesis, “interesting.” And he wasn’t lying about the cooking—the man knows how to make a pancake.

“Wasn’t he on the cover of the graduate program catalog?”

“He insists no,” Killian replies skeptically, stealing a sip of Jasmine’s coffee, “but I’d know those shoulders anywhere.”

“Probably just embarrassed,” she agrees with an unsettling, careful gleam in her eye. “How’s the pining going?”

“Bloody terrific, thanks for asking.”

“You know, Killian, you could just  _ask him_.”

“You mean like a normal person? Why the  _hell_  would I do that?”

She huffs and pulls her mug away before he can steal another sip. “You’ve brought people over before, right? It’s not like you’re  _hiding_  anything.”

It wouldn’t be entirely unfair of him to be concerned about it. People are generally more “open,” these days, particularly at a liberal university, but that doesn’t mean  _all men_  are comfortable sharing a living space with another man who happens to find both sexes pleasing. And honestly, he doesn’t want to lose his friend—even if losing him would have to mean he’s a bigoted arsehole.

“There’s no way,” Jasmine had tried to reassure him when David had first moved in, “No man who cares about dogs  _that much_ could possibly be  _that_  terrible.”

“If he was interested he would have said something by now,” Killian mumbles, avoiding her annoyingly observant gaze. “There’s only so many times I can ‘accidentally’ brush against him.”

Jasmine rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You are not wrong, my darling,” he answers with a wink, giving her a small “thanks,” as she slides the coffee back across the table.

* * *

Towards the end of March, David starts growing a beard. It is absolutely the  _worst thing_  that has ever happened. If Killian thought the clean-shaven jawline was bad, the light dusting of dirty blonde hair across the bottom-half of his face is  _literal_  torture.

“Not  _literally_ ,” Jasmine corrects, giving his arm a light smack, “don’t be so dramatic.”

“But I’m  _dying_.”

It doesn’t help matters that the bitter chill in the air seems to have lessened; that there’s a constant smell of rain and wet earth and the headiness of blooming flowers. The nagging sensation that one season is ending, a new one is beginning, and it’s time for Killian to make a seasonally appropriate change that will reflect his own personal growth. Which is not quite so easy as it might sound.

David Nolan has begun to grow a beard and roll up the sleeves of his infernal flannel button downs. He walks about the flat without socks on and he’s always catching the evening sunlight on his perfect face. It almost makes him miss the way the sun had set at 4 PM—when Killian wasn’t home until 5 and the only way to look at him was under the shitty light of some secondhand lamp they’d bought at the thrift store. The natural light is much, much worse. 

They’ve had a bit too much to drink one night when Killian finally puts his foot in his mouth and reveals just a little bit too much about how he feels regarding this new facial hair situation.

“What did you just say?” David laughs, clapping a hand over his mouth in order to prevent the spray of beer from escaping.

“You heard me,” Killian answers, nose in the air. “You’ve made your bed, mate.  _Lie in it_.”

And he doesn’t remember much after that—woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and the familiar taste of regret in his mouth.

 _I think I might have said something stupid_ , he texts Jasmine that morning, listening to Dave bustling about in the kitchen without the slightest  _hint_ of a hangover slowing down his usual movements. His phone vibrates.

_Shocking._

* * *

“So,” David begins a few weeks later, falling heavily against Killian as he sinks into the couch, “you like the beard, huh?”

“A fine, manly thing,” he confirms distractedly, his fingers moving quickly over the controller, “congratulations.”

“You’re not worried it’ll get me into trouble?”

Killian doesn’t really process the question at first. He’s too busy killing a dragon to notice much of anything—at least until he gets to a loading screen and realizes that he’s being very carefully  _watched_.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, confused, “What will get you into trouble?”

“The beard,” Dave says again, slowly, as if Killian had been recently struck in the head, “you  _warned_  me.”

“Um,” Killian starts, suddenly feeling rather mortified, “I don’t, uh—“

He’s being quite thoroughly kissed before he can say anything else potentially idiotic, and it is, essentially, everything Killian had imagined it would be.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you  _tongue-tied_  before,” David mutters against his somewhat open mouth, “I think I kind of like it.”

“Yeah, well,” Killian answers softly, chasing after his lips, “don’t get used to it.”

* * *

Somehow, Dave’s room looks different with the hard, enticing length of him pressed against Killian’s back. The slight messiness doesn’t bother him quite so much—the curtains don’t clash with the bedspread, they only shift pleasantly in the breeze. The sight of his socks on the floor, they don’t make him feel anxious, they only remind him of the fact that David’s feet are warm, and bare, and inching up alongside his own. He thinks, briefly, about the changeability of a place, but it’s hard to think on it further with Dave’s lips on his neck.

Their movements are hurried, but not in a way that suggests a feeling of running out of time; more so a feeling of having waited long enough. Killian tugs his own shirt over his head before falling backwards against the bed as David hovers over him, sticking his fuzzy, interfering chin beneath Killian’s jaw.

“Did that on purpose, did you?” he laughs, trying to remember when he could have possibly missed the fact that he had been seduced for  _weeks_.

“Took you long enough.”

There isn’t much talking after that, mostly low laughter and this electric feeling that runs from the top of Killian’s head all the way down to his toes—this feeling that he hadn’t felt in ages, that he hadn’t known he even  _missed_ , and yet, when he feels it again he  _knows_  that he has.

They finally fall asleep shortly before sunrise, having spent the evening learning the intimate details of one another; swapping certain particulars of each other’s pasts they hadn’t shared before now; passing a water bottle back and forth when their mouths have grown dry from speaking—from moving together.

When Killian finally wakes late the next morning it is to the warmth of another person wrapped around him, of their legs intertwined. His phone lights up from its place on the floor and he smirks at the sight of Jasmine’s name on the screen.

_I think I can guess why you missed class. At least one of us is having fun._

He huffs out a quiet breath, grinning at the feeling of David moving sleepily behind him, his arm squeezing him a bit tighter, banded across his chest. He responds slowly, hoping to keep him asleep and remain in bed a few more hours.

_I’ve never been more happy to be wrong._


End file.
